THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


Their  Child 

& 

ROBERT   HERRICK 


Their  Child 


BY 


ROBERT    HERRICK 

AUTHOR    OF   "THE  WEB  OF  LIFE,"    "THE  MAN 

WHO  WINS,"    "THE  GOSPEL  OF  FREEDOM," 

ETC. 


Nefa 
THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

LONDON :   MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LTD. 
1903 

All  rights  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,  1903, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN   COMPANY. 

Set  up,  electrotyped,  and  published  October,  1903. 


NortoooB 

J.  S.  Gushing  &  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


MR.  ROBERT  HERRICK,  the  author  of 
"  The  Gospel  of  Freedom,"  "  The  Web  of 
Life,"  and  "  The  Real  World,"  was  born 
in  Cambridge,  Mass.,  April  26,  1868. 
His  father  was  a  lawyer,  practising  in 
Boston.  His  people  on  both  sides  were 
of  New  England  stock,  the  Herricks 
running  back  in  New  England  to  1632, 
and  the  Emerys,  Mannings,  Hales,  and 
Peabodys,  with  whom  among  others  his 
genealogy  is  connected,  having  much  the 
same  history.  Mr.  Herrick  was  educated 
at  the  Cambridge  public  schools,  and  at 
Harvard  University,  graduating  in  1890. 
His  freshman  year  and  part  of  his  soph 
omore  year  were  spent  in  travelling  in 
the  West  Indies,  Mexico,  California, 
Alaska,  and  other  regions,  in  company 
with  his  classmate,  Philip  Stanley  Abbot. 
While  in  college  Mr.  Herrick  paid  special 
attention  to  English  studies,  attending 
courses  of  lectures  delivered  by  the  late 
Professor  Child,  Professor  James,  and 
Professor  Barrett  Wendell,  among  others. 


370818 


For  a  year  he  was  one  of  the  editors  of  the 
Harvard  Advocate,  and  contributed  sev 
eral  stories  to  that  magazine.  Later  he 
was  editor  of  the  Harvard  Monthly  — 
the  purely  literary  magazine  of  the  Uni 
versity, —  contributing  frequently  to  its 
pages.  One  of  his  fellow-editors  was 
Norman  Hapgood,  the  author  of  "Abra 
ham  Lincoln :  the  Man  of  the  People," 
and  "George  Washington." 

After  graduation  Mr.  Herrick  began  to  teach 
English  at  the  Massachusetts  Institute  of 
Technology,  under  Professor  George  R. 
Carpenter  (now  of  Columbia  University), 
and  continued  to  correct  themes  and  to 
give  an  occasional  course  in  literature 
until  1893,  when  he  resigned  his  position 
in  Boston  to  accept  an  instructorship  in 
English  at  the  University  of  Chicago. 
In  1895  he  was  appointed  Assistant  Pro 
fessor  of  Rhetoric  in  the  University,  and 
he  has  since  taught  chiefly  Rhetoric  and 
English  Composition. 

The  summer  of  1892  he  spent  in  England 

2 


and  on  the  Continent.  In  1895  he  went 
abroad  for  fifteen  months,  for  rest  and 
literary  work,  living,  in  Paris  and  Flor 
ence  during  most  of  the  period.  While 
in  Europe  he  wrote  the  first  draft  of  "  The 
Man  Who  Wins,"  which  was  published 
two  years  later;  also  the  first  form  of 
"  The  Gospel  of  Freedom,"  and  various 
short  stories,  which  were  first  published 
in  the  magazines  and  afterward  reprinted 
in  "Literary  Love  Letters  and  Other 
Stories,"  and  in  "Love's  Dilemmas." 
In  addition  to  his  writing  in  the  line  of 
fiction,  Mr.  Herrick  has  done  a  great 
deal  of  work  on  more  or  less  professional 
topics.  Magazine  articles  about  methods 
of  teaching  rhetoric,  introductions  and 
notes  for  school  editions  of  classics,  one 
or  two  text-books  on  rhetoric,  —  these 
items  give  an  idea  of  the  sort  of  work 
which  has  occupied  Mr.  Herrick's  atten 
tion  apart  from  fiction.  He  is  one  of  the 
few  modern  American  writers  who  have 
the  courage  and  the  strength  to  paint  life 
3 


exactly  as  they  see  it,  —  in  its  joy,  its 
beauty,  its  sombreness,  and  its  sorrow 
alike,  —  without  making  it  seem  happier 
or  nearer  the  ideal  than  it  is. 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Portrait  of  Robert  Herrick      .       .    Frontispiece 

FACING   PAGE 

"  His  wife    was  .  .  .  hurriedly    undressing 

the  child" 50 

"  She  knelt  beside  him  and  took  his  head 

in  her  hands " 90 


THEIR  CHILD 


THEIR  CHILD 


IHERE  he  comes  with  Dora ! 
I  am  so  glad.  I  wanted  you 
to  see  him  so  much  —  all  of 
you." 

The  company  gathered  in  the  draw 
ing-room  smiled  sympathetically  at  the 
mother's  pride.  They  craned  their  necks 
about  the  window  to  get  sight  of  the 
small  boy.  He  was  a  white  speck  in 
the  long  green  lawn. 

"  Comes  rather,  reluctantly,"  observed 
Dr.  Vessinger,  with  a  touch  of  irony. 
"  Doesn't  seem  to  have  his  mother's 
taste  for  society !  " 

"  The    little   dear  !      How    cunning ! 
7 


THEIR   CHILD 

A  perfect  dear !  "  the  women  exclaimed 
with  more  or  less  animation. 

"  Why,  he  is  in  such  a  temper !  Little 
Oscar!  What  is  the  matter  with  little 
Oscar?" 

The  child's  screams  could  be  heard 
plainly,  coming  upward  from  the  lawn, 
in  shrill  bursts  of  infantile  passion.  Mrs. 
Simmons  was  troubled  with  a  mother's 
confusion  and  distress.  The  nurse  was 
holding  little  Oscar  at  arm's  length,  for 
safety,  while  the  child  circled  about  her, 
kicking  and  thrusting  with  legs  and 
arms.  Mrs.  Simmons  stepped  through  the 
open  window  to  the  terrace  and  called : 

"  Oscar !  Oscar !  "  But  neither  nurse 
nor  child  paid  any  attention  to  her. 

"  He  is  occupied  with  a  greater  pas 
sion,"  the  doctor  laughed. 

"  Unconscious  little  animals,  children," 
observed  one  of  the  women. 

"  He  has  temperament  —  " 

"  His  mother's  ?  "  another  woman  sug 
gested  slyly.  She  was  large,  very 
blonde,  very  well  preserved,  and  was 
8 


THEIR    CHILD 

known  by  her  intimates  as  "the  Mag 
nificent  Wreck." 

The  shrill  cries  penetrated  at  last 
even  the  room  beyond  the  large  draw 
ing-room  where  the  people  were  gath 
ered,  and  aroused  the  father,  who  had 
been  called  on  a  matter  of  business  into 
the  study.  He  stepped  briskly  into  the 
room,  —  a  handsome  man  of  forty,  with 
black  curling  hair  and  crisp  black  beard 
cut  to  a  point.  His  cheek-bones  were 
high,  and  the  skin  of  his  upper  face  was 
ruddy,  as  from  much  living  in  the  open 
air. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  the  boy  ? " 
he  demanded  abruptly. 

"  Just  a  case  of  '  I  don't  want  to,' " 
observed  Dr.  Vessinger.  "When  we 
are  young  and  feel  that  way,  we  let  the 
world  know  it  all  of  a  sudden." 

"  And  when  we  are  grown,"  joined  in 
the  large,  blonde  woman,  smiling  at  the 
doctor,  "we  say  nothing,  but  do  as  we 
like." 

"  If  we  can,"  added  a  young  woman, 
9 


THEIR   CHILD 

with  nervous  anxiety  to  be  in  the  con 
versation. 

Mrs.  Simmons  had  disappeared 
through  the  French  window  that  opened 
to  the  terrace.  Her  husband  followed, 
and  the  others  lounged,  after  bandying 
words  on  the  occasion.  They  could  see 
below  them  on  the  slope  of  the  lawn  the 
young  mother,  the  nurse,  the  child. 

"  Why,  Dora !  What  is  the  matter  ?  " 
they  could  hear  her  say.  "  Oscar,  be 
still.  Be  quiet  and  come  to  me." 

She  must  have  spoken  reprovingly  to 
the  nurse,  for  next  came  in  injured  Irish 
tones : 

"  What  have  /  done,  mum  ?  The  boy 
was  pounding  the  breath  of  life  out  of 
the  Vance  child.  I  could  not  keep  his 
fists  from  his  face.  What  have  I  done  ? 
Indeed ! " 

"There,  don't  answer  any  more. 
Take  Oscar  to  the  nursery,  and  wash 
his  face,  and  bring  him  down.  I  want 
these  ladies  and  gentlemen  to  see  him." 

Little  Oscar,  who  had  much  the  same 


THEIR   CHILD 

coloring  and  shape  of  head  as  his  father, 
listened  quietly  while  his  mother  spoke 
to  the  nurse.  When  she  had  finished  and 
Dora  tugged  at  his  hand,  he  shouted  : 

"  I  won't !  Do  you  hear  ?  I  won't ! 
Don't  you  touch  me !  I  say,  don't  you 
touch  me ! " 

He  enunciated  with  great  distinctness, 
with  mature  deliberation.  When  the 
nurse  tried  to  take  his  arm,  she  received  a 
well-aimed  blow  in  the  pit  of  her  stomach, 
delivered  with  all  the  vigor  of  a  lusty 
five  years. 

"  Oscar !  Why,  my  little  man  !  "  the 
mother  exclaimed  helplessly. 

Mr.  Simmons,  who  had  been  watching 
the  group,  vaulted  over  the  terrace  wall 
and  strode  rapidly  down  the  slope. 
Little  Oscar,  at  the  apparition  of  his 
long-legged  father,  turned  and  fled 
around  the  wing  of  the  house.  His 
nurse  followed  grumblingly. 

"  Bravo  !  "  exclaimed  Dr.   Vessinger, 
satirically.       "  Young    Hercules    needs 
the  chastening  hand  of  his  sire." 
ii 


THEIR   CHILD 

"  We  shall  have  to  call  you  in,  I  guess, 
Vessinger,  if  the  kid's  temper  gets  worse. 
It's  too  much  for  his  mother  now,  and 
he  is  only  afraid  of  me  because  I  am 
home  so  little  he  doesn't  exactly  realize 
I  am  his  father.  When  he  does,  he  will 
be  boxing  me" 

"  Yes,"  sighed  Mrs.  Simmons,  red  with 
annoyance.  "  It  has  come  all  of  a  sud 
den,  too.  He  was  so  gentle  as  a  baby, 
so  sweet.  I  think  it  must  be  the  nurse, 
Dora." 

The  company  looked  sympathetic,  and 
she  continued  apologetically :  "  She  is  a 
good  woman,  but  she  is  so  tactless. 
She  doesn't  know  how  to  manage  the 
little  fellow.  She  should  appeal  to  his 
reason,  I  think." 

"  It  is  sometimes  difficult  to  get  a 
quiet  hearing,"  observed  the  doctor. 

"  Tiresome  creatures,  nurses,"  the 
Magnificent  Wreck  added  sympatheti 
cally.  "  I  can  remember  how  I  hated 
'mine." 

"  Can  you  ?  "  the  younger  woman  put 

12 


THEIR   CHILD 

in  inadvertently,  as  though  called  upon 
to  applaud  a  triumph  of  memory. 

"  But  what  a  beautiful  child  ! "  ex 
claimed  the  Magnificent  one,  declining 
issue  with  the  other.  "  So  like  his 
father,  as  he  stood  there,  his  head 
thrown  back.  When  he  whirled  past 
us  just  now,  there  was  the  gleam  of  the 
Viking  in  his  eyes  !  " 

"  Yes,  all  he  needed  was  a  carving- 
knife  to  be  a  first-class  pirate,"  Vessinger 
added  lightly. 

The  father  laughed,  but  not  heartily ; 
and  Vessinger,  feeling  the  topic  ex 
hausted,  turned  to  his  blonde  neigh 
bor: 

"  Mrs.  Bellflower,  there  are  real  clouds 
in  the  sky  out  there.  What  do  you  think 
of  our  chances  with  the  rain  ?  " 

"You  mustn't  go! "  their  host  and  host 
ess  protested.  Mrs.  Simmons  added  in 
an  undertone  :  "  I  wonder  if  it  could  be 
the  thunder-storm  that  upset  poor  little 
Oscar  so  completely  ?  Thunder  affects 
me,  always." 

13 


THEIR    CHILD 

Dr.  Vessinger  was  at  her  elbow  to  say 
good-by. 

"  It  is  charming  to  find  you  again," 
he  said,  taking  her  hand  and  looking 
boldly  into  her  face.  "  To  find  you  in 
this  —  this  splendid  scene,  with  your 
charming  child  and  your  husband.  You 
are  looking  so  young  that,  if  it  were  not 
for  us  others,  I  might  shut  my  eyes  and 
believe  I  was  in  Sicily  !  " 

H>  jffj?Ji£-jieliriprntHy,  as  jfr^ngh  he 

wi^pH    tn_jriyf    tW"    meanings   to    every 

word  "he  uttered.  The  young  woman's 
color  changed,  and  her  hands  played 
with  the  leaves  of  a  book  she  had  taken 
at  random  from  the  table. 

"  You  must  come  again,  often  —  I 
want  to  see  you,"  she  said  abruptly, 
looking  at  him  honestly.  "  I  know  you 
have  done  some  things  since  that  time, 
and  I  am  glad  of  it !  " 

"  Thank  you." 

"  Oh,  come !  This  is  nonsense.  You 
aren't  going  to  slip  away  on  any  such 
easy  excuse  as  that,"  burst  in  Simmons. 
14 


THEIR    CHILD 

"  See,  your  storm  is  passing  around. 
And  if  it  comes,  what  could  be  finer 
than  a  gallop  back  in  the  clear  air  after 
the  rain  has  washed  the  dirt  out  ?  It 
will  lay  the  dust,  too." 

"  No,  no !  "  delivered  Mrs.  Bellflower. 
"We  don't  want  to  go  yet,  doctor. 
Maybe  we  can  stay  to  dinner  if  it  rains. 
Let's  go  out  to  the  terrace." 

They  stepped  out  of  the  open  win 
dows  to  the  broad  brick  terrace  that 
completed  the  east  side  of  the  house. 
Beneath  them  in  the  distance,  to  the 
eastward,  lay  the  great  city,  and  beyond 
they  knew  there  was  the  sea.  Over  the 
lofty  chimneys  and  massy  ramparts  of 
houses  lowered  the  storm,  which  was 
spreading  in  two  forks  about  the  horizon. 
Slowly  it  was  climbing  up  the  dome  of 
the  sky  toward  them.  An  edging  of  gold 
fired  the  black  mass  from  time  to  time. 

"Grand  place  you  have  here,  Sim 
mons,"  Dr.  Vessinger  observed.  "The 
top  of  a  hill  not  too  high,  —  that's  the 
right  place  for  a  country  house." 


THEIR   CHILD 

"If  Olaf  were  only  here  oftener," 
the  wife  remarked.  "  He's  just  come 
home,  and  he  says  he  must  leave  soon 
again." 

"Yes,  those  Jews  I  work  for,  the 
Techheimer  Brothers,  mean  that  I  shall 
earn  my  salary.  They  are  dickering  for 
some  new  mines  in  Mexico,  and  want 
me  to  look  them  over." 

"  But  you  are  promised  to  me  for  the 
tenth,"  Mrs.  Bellflower  protested. 

"What  are  the  Techheimers  to  that  ?  " 
commented  the  doctor. 

"Nothing!  I  shall  put  them  off 
until  the  eleventh,"  Simmons  re 
sponded  heartily.  "  It's  going  to  be  a 
fierce  jaunt,  and  I  am  not  keen  to 
start." 

"  Take  us !  We  would  all  go,  wouldn't 
we,  Mrs.  Simmons  ? "  the  younger  woman 
put  in. 

"  I    am    afraid    the    hotels   wouldn't 

please   you   down   there.      And    queer 

things   happen    sometimes.      The    last 

time  I  was  there  —  it  was   ticklish.     I 

16 


THEIR   CHILD 

never  wanted  to  go  back.  You  wouldn't 
have  liked  it,  not  you  women." 

"  Tell  it !  Tell  us  !  "  they  chorused. 
Vessinger  lit  a  cigarette  and  resigned 
himself  to  watching  the  assembling 
clouds.  Imperceptibly  he  drew  away 
from  the  group,  as  if  declining  to  be 
one  where  he  was  not  first. 

"  I  adore  adventures !  "  the  Magnifi 
cent  Wreck  added  sentimentally,  encour 
agingly.  Simmons  folded  his  arms 
across  his  breast.  His  eyes  flashed  pleas 
antly.  The  story  interested  him,  too :  — 

"Well,  it  was  in  '91,  for  the  Tech- 
heimer  Brothers.  One  of  the  first  jobs 
I  did  for  them.  They  wired  me  from 
St.  Louis  that  a  certain  old  Don  from 
whom  I  had  bought  several  car-loads 
of  ore,  which  had  been  forwarded  to 
their  smelter,  had  done  us  very  prettily. 
He  had  salted  his  cars  very  cleverly. 
The  ore  ran  short  of  the  assay  by  several 
thousand  dollars,  all  told.  I  had  made 
the  assay  —  you  understand  ? 

"  It  was  my  duty  to  take  the  three 
c  17 


THEIR    CHILD 

days'  journey  from  the  City  of  Mexico  to 
Don  Herara's  headquarters  in  the  little 
town  of  Los  Puertos,  see  the  old  rascal, 
and  without  having  a  quarrel,  induce  him 
to  refund  the  money  he  had  cheated  us 
out  of. 

"  Los  Puertos  is  almost  the  loneliest 
spot  I  ever  got  into,  for  a  town.  It  is 
at  the  end  of  a  two  days'  stage-ride 
from  the  railroad.  It  is  hell !  Just  peons, 
a  great  adobe  barracks  where  my  old 
thief  lived,  a  swift  river  rushing  down 
from  the  mountains  behind  the  town  — 
nothing  more. 

"  You  should  have  seen  us  the  after 
noon  of  my  arrival,  sitting  in  the  old 
Don's  office,  drinking  petits  verres  and 
swapping  compliments.  'Your  honor 
able  excellency,'  said  I ;  '  Your  noble 
courtesy,'  said  he.  And  so  on.  The 
Don  had  white  hair,  a  hawk  nose,  brown 
eyes,  that  had  slunk  deep  under  his 
brows,  and  the  long  white  beard  of  a 
patriarch.  He  was  a  most  respectable 
sinner ! 

18 


THEIR   CHILD 

"  Every  time  some  one  stepped  across 
the  room  above  I  wanted  to  jump.  I 
thought  he  must  have  a  dozen  or  so  of 
his  peons  hidden  up  there  to  slice  me 
with  their  great  machetes  when  he  gave 
the  signal.  As  the  afternoon  grew 
mellow,  I  began  to  suggest  in  ten-foot 
sentences  that  some  rascally  servant  of 
his  honorable  right-mindedness  had  been 
deceiving  his  grace,  and  had  caused  my 
poor  masters  the  loss  of  some  thousands 
of  dollars,  the  loss  of  which  was  nothing 
to  them  compared  with  the  sorrow  they 
felt  that  his  honorable  good  name  was 
thus  sullied  by  an  unworthy  servant. 

"  My  old  Don  gulped  my  compliments 
without  a  wink  :  he  had  known  what  I 
was  after  all  along,  of  course.  When  I 
had  turned  the  corner  of  the  last  Spanish 
sentence,  he  nodded  at  me  pleasantly, 
but  his  brows  were  stretched  like  catgut. 
He  cleared  his  throat  and  spat,  and  I 
seemed  to  hear  all  sorts  of  things  going 
on  over  my  head.  That  little  room  was 
the  loneliest  place  on  the  earth  just  then." 
19 


THEIR   CHILD 

"Had  you  a  pistol?"  broke  in  Mrs. 
Bellflower,  breathlessly. 

"  I  carefully  left  that  behind  me  in  the 
City  of  Mexico.  For  if  it  should  come 
to  that,  it  would  only  have  compli 
cated  matters.  I  rarely  travel  with  a 
revolver." 

Mrs.  Bellflower  regretted  this  lack  of 
picturesqueness. 

"  Well,  my  Don  looked  at  me  for  a  few 
minutes.  Then  he  said,  '  Shall  we  en 
joy  the  cool  of  the  evening  in  a  gentle 
stroll  ? '  We  went  out  on  the  stony  trail 
up  toward  the  black  mountains.  They 
looked  cold  and  bare. 

" '  Los  Puertos,'  he  remarked  philo 
sophically,  '  is  a  very  small  place.  It  is 
very  far  away  from  your  home,  Seflor 
Simmons.'  '  I  have  been  in  places 
farther  away,  sir,  and  got  back,  too.'  '  I 
own  it  all,  Senor  Americano ;  every  soul 
of  these  people  is  mine.'  '  So,'  I  an 
swered,  as  stiff  for  the  boast  as  he,  '  the 
Techheimers  are  great  people.'  And  I 
blew  a  lot  about  my  bosses,  how  they 
20 


THEIR    CHILD 

watched  their  men  and  took  an  eye  for 
an  eye,  every  time.  Finally,  we  turned 
back  toward  the  town  and  came  through 
a  patch  of  cactus  to  the  river,  which  was 
brawling  along  over  big  stones.  There 
was  a  narrow  foot-bridge  across.  '  After 
you,'  says  the  Don.  I  looked  him  in  the 
eye,  and  thought  I  saw  the  twinkle  of 
mischief. 

"  I  never  wanted  to  do  murder  before 
or  since.  But  there  in  the  dusk,  beside 
that  dirty  river  of  mud  and  stones  from 
the  mountains,  where  he  meant  to  drown 
me,  I  came  near  wringing  his  neck.  I 
guess  my  nerves  had  got  tired  of  ex 
pecting  things  to  happen.  I  walked  up 
to  him,  and  I  must  have  looked  fierce, 
for  he  whistled,  and  one  or  two  men  who 
were  skulking  about  joined  us.  I  was 
so  mad  that  a  moment  more  and  I  should 
have  had  my  hands  about  his  windpipe, 
no  matter  whether  they  cut  me  into 
mince-meat  the  next  minute.  Do  you 
know  what  it  is  to  feel  like  doing  mur 
der  ?  It's  the  drunkest  kind  of  feeling 


THEIR   CHILD 

you  can  have  —  you  don't  know  your 
self  at  all  —  " 

"I  should  like  to  try  that!"  sighed 
Mrs.  Bellflower. 

At  this  point  there  seemed  to  come 
somewhere  from  the  rooms  above  a 
frightened  cry. 

"  Mercy ! "  exclaimed  the  young 
woman,  "what's  that?" 

Mrs.  Simmons  sprang  up,  and  stood 
listening.  Then  they  could  all  hear 
distinctly  in  a  woman's  voice  : 

"Oh,  oh!  He  has  killed  me!  Oh, 
oh !  "  Then  silence. 

Before  the  last  groans  reached  their 
ears  Mrs.  Simmons  had  darted  into  the 
dark  drawing-room,  calling  as  she  sped, 
"  Oscar!  my  little  Oscar  !  " 

On  the  terrace  they  could  hear  again 
more  faintly  the  "Oh,  oh,  oh!"  from 
above. 

"And  what  did  happen  to  your  old 
Don  ? "  Mrs.  Bellflower  asked  with  a 
show  of  unconcern. 

"  Why,  nothing  much.     I  —  " 

22 


THEIR   CHILD 

"Oh,  Olaf!     Come,  Olaf  !" 

It  was  Mrs.  Simmons's  voice  this  time. 
Simmons  bounded  from  the  terrace, 
calling : 

"Yes,  Evelyn!     Coming,  Evelyn  !" 

The  others  jumped  from  their  chairs. 

"  Come,  Dr.  Vessinger !  "  exclaimed 
the  Magnificent  Wreck.  "  I  think  it  is 
time  you  and  I  and  Miss  Flower  were 
gone.  Where  are  the  horses  ? " 

"  Do  you  think  we  should  leave  quite 
yet  ?  "  the  doctor  asked,  somewhat  cyni 
cally.  "  It  seems  to  me  the  story  has 
just  begun." 

"Well,  you  may  stay  for  the  end. 
But  I  am  going! " 


II 


JIMMONS  stumbled  across  the 
hall  and  up  the  dark  staircase. 
The  coming  storm  had  sud 
denly  blackened  all  the  house.  The 
open  doors  of  the  bedrooms  sucked  out 
the  swaying  air  that  came  in  puffs  from 
the  windows.  In  the  eastern  room, 
above  the  terrace  where  they  had  been 
sitting,  Simmons  found  his  wife,  clasp 
ing  their  child  in  a  hysterical  embrace. 

"  What  have  you  done  ?  My  darling 
—  my  one  —  my  Oscar !  "  A  dry  sob 
ended  the  broken  exclamations. 

They  were  huddled  in  a  heap  upon 
the  floor  beside  the  window.  The  child's 
face  had  a  look  of  intense  wonder,  of 
concentrated  thought  upon  some  diffi 
cult  idea  which  eluded  his  baby  mind. 
24 


THEIR   CHILD 

Across  the  iron  cot  at  one  side  of  the 
room  was  stretched  the  inert  form  of  the 
nurse. 

"  Look  at  her,  Olaf,"  said  Mrs.  Sim 
mons.  "  He  has  —  cut  her  —  stabbed 
her  with  the  knife." 

As  Simmons  approached  the  bed,  he 
kicked  something  with  his  foot.  It  fell 
upon  the  tiled  fireplace  with  the  tinkle  of 
steel.  The  woman  on  the  bed  groaned. 
Simmons  turned  on  the  electric  light, 
and  hastily  examined  the  nurse. 

"  She's  not  badly  hurt,  Evelyn.  A 
scratch  along  the  neck.  She  fainted  at 
the  sight  of  blood,  I  guess.  But  what 
was  the  knife  ?  " 

He  picked  up  the  thing  from  the  fire 
place  and  examined  it.  It  was  a  long, 
dull,  sharp-pointed  knife,  brought  from 
the  kitchen  to  cut  bread  with.  Along 
the  edge  it  was  faintly  daubed  with 
blood.  Simmons,  still  holding  it  in  his 
hands,  stepped  to  the  window.  His 
wife  was  crouching  there,  sobbing  over 
the  child,  whom  she  held  in  her  arms 
25 


THEIR   CHILD 

tightly.  Little  Oscar's  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  the  thunder-clouds  outside.  He 
neither  saw  nor  heard  what  was  passing 
in  the  room.  The  father  leaned  over 
and  touched  his  forehead  with  his  hand. 
The  child  shrank  away. 

"  You  must  take  him  out  of  here,  Eve 
lyn  !  "  he  said.  "  I  will  look  after  her." 

"  She  must  have  been  cutting  the 
bread  for  his  supper,  and  laid  the  knife 
down  on  the  table  for  a  moment.  I  —  I 
told  her  never  to  leave  it  about.  I  have 
been  afraid  —  of  something  !  " 

"  You  have  been  afraid  ? "  her  hus 
band  asked  quickly.  "  Why  so  ? " 

The  boy  moved  uneasily  and  turned 
his  head  to  watch  his  father. 

"  What  you  got  my  knife  for  ? "  he 
demanded.  "  Give  me  my  knife  !  " 

"  You  shall  never,  never  have  it 
again  ! "  his  mother  moaned,  clasping 
him  more  tightly. 

"Why  not?"  he  asked  curiously. 
"  What's  the  matter  with  Dora  ?  Why's 
she  lying  on  my  bed  ?  Tell  her  to  get 
26 


THEIR    CHILD 

up.     I  am  tired.     Oscar  wants  to  go  to 
bed." 

His  eyelids  fell  and  rose,  as  though 
the  long  search  for  the  mysterious  thing 
in  his  mind  had  put  him  into  a  doze. 

"  He  does  not  seem  to  know  what  he 
has  done.  What  is  it?  Olaf,  what  is 
the  matter  with  him  ?  " 

"  Ssh,  hush  !  Don't  rouse  him.  Get 
him  to  bed.  Don't  let  him  know.  I'll 
look  after  Dora  —  she's  coming  around 
now —  and  then  I'll  call  Vessinger,  if  it 
is  necessary. 

"  No !  no !  not  him,"  she  protested 
vehemently.  "  I  don't  want  him  to  see, 
to  know  anything  about  it,  —  no  one,  but 
he  least  of  all." 

Simmons  looked  mystified  by  her  ve 
hemence. 

"  It  all  seems  dark  around  me ! "  she 
moaned. 

"  There,"  he  said  soothingly.  "  Wrap 
him  in  that  dressing-gown  and  take  him 
to  your  room.  I  must  attend  to  this 
woman." 

27 


THEIR   CHILD 

In  spite  of  his  wife's  objections,  how 
ever,  he  went  downstairs  to  look  for 
the  doctor.  The  room  and  the  terrace 
were  both  empty  ;  he  could  see  the  party 
riding,  like  a  group  of  scuttled  birds,  at 
a  hard  gallop  down  the  lane  at  the  end 
of  the  lawn. 

"They  might  have  waited  to  find 
out ! "  he  muttered.  Great  drops  of 
rain  splashed  on  the  bricks  about  him. 
They  had  fled  from  his  house  even  in 
the  teeth  of  the  storm.  He  returned 
hastily  to  the  nurse,  bathed  the  wound  in 
the  neck,  and  gave  her  some  liquor  from 
his  flask.  When  she  had  gone  to  her 
room,  he  went  downstairs  once  more, 
without  crossing  the  hall  to  his  wife's 
room.  That  took  a  kind  of  courage 
which  he  did  not  have.  Servants  had 
lit  the  lamps  in  the  long  room  and  pulled 
the  shades.  Outside  the  rain  swept 
across  the  terrace  and  beat  upon  the 
French  windows.  He  waited,  listening, 
irresolute,  unwilling  to  take  the  future 
in  his  hands. 

28 


THEIR   CHILD 

Finally  he  detected  a  dragging  step 
on  the  stairs.  His  wife  came  slowly 
toward  him,  her  erect  young  woman's 
head  crushed  under  a  weight  of  fear. 

"They  have  gone,"  she  sighed  with 
relief. 

"  Yes,  they  cleared  out  in  the  face  of 
the  storm ! " 

"I  am  so  glad!" 

"  Sit  down,  dear,"  he  urged,  taking  her 
cold  hands. 

She  disengaged  herself  from  him  be 
fore  he  could  kiss  her,  and  sat  down 
beside  the  long  table  in  a  straight  stiff 
chair.  She  clasped  her  hands  tightly 
and  looked  at  her  husband  with  a  face 
of  misery  and  horror. 

"What  is  it,  Olaf  ?  Tell  me  what  it 
is.  Tell  me  !  " 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean  by  if?"  he 
stammered. 

"  You  know !  "  she  exclaimed  passion 
ately.  "  Don't  let  us  hide  it  any  longer. 
What  is  the  matter  with  little  Oscar,  with 
our  child  ? " 

29 


THEIR   CHILD 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  He  was  still 
looking  for  subterfuges. 

"It  wasn't  Dora.  I  knew  he  would 
do  it  some  day,  and  I  have  tried  to  keep 
things  that  he  could  do  harm  with  from 
him.  I  dreaded  this.  Something  seized 
him,  —  something  inside  him,  —  and  he 
snatched  the  knife  out  of  her  hand. 
When  I  got  there,  he  was  looking  at  the 
knife.  It  was  —  all  bloody.  Oh,  Olaf  ! 
He  was  talking  to  himself.  Then  he 
dropped  the  knife,  and  he  didn't  seem 
to  remember.  He  is  sleeping  now,  just 
as  if  it  had  never  happened." 

"  It's  just  his  fearful  temper,  Evelyn," 
the  man  answered  with  an  effort.  "  Dora 
irritates  him,  and  the  thundery  air  and 
all.  You  must  pack  up  and  get  to  the 
seashore  or  mountains,  where  it's  more 
bracing.  He's  just  nervous  like  you 
and  me,  only  more  so,  because  he's 
smaller." 

She  shook  her  head  wearily.  What 
was  the  use  of  self-deception  ?  Hadn't 
she  watched  this  habit  of  rage  for 
3° 


THEIR    CHILD 

months  ?  The  child  was  a  part  of  her ; 
and  more  than  she  knew  her  hand  or 
her  foot  she  knew  him.  Doctors  talked 
of  nerves  and  diet  But  she  had  seen 
the  storms  gather  in  the  child  and 
watched  them  burst. 

"  No  !  That  is  no  use,  Olaf.  I  can't 
tell  myself  those  things  any  more  and 
be  contented.  It  is  worse  !  " 

Simmons  was  walking  up  and  down 
the  room,  hands  thrust  in  his  pockets, 
his  face  knit  over  the  problem. 

"All  the  world  like  old  Oscar,"  he 
muttered,  talking  to  himself. 

His  wife  caught  up  the  words  greedily. 

"  Old  Oscar  Svenson,  your  step 
father,  the  one  who  brought  you  up  and 
gave  you  your  education  ?  The  one  we 
named  him  after  ?  " 

The  man  nodded  half  guiltily. 

"  Yes,  old  Oscar,  —  the  man  who  gave 
me  everything,  —  the  chance  to  live,  to 
win  you  —  all." 

He  resumed  his  tramp  to  and  fro 
across  the  rug,  scrupulously  refraining 


THEIR   CHILD 

from  stepping  beyond  the  border.  His 
wife  still  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  him,  as 
though  resolved  to  win  from  him  the 
secret  of  the  matter.  Suddenly  she 
rose  and  went  to  him,  putting  her  arms 
about  his  neck. 

"  Let  me  look  at  you !  You  have 
always  been  a  good  man,  I  know.  You 
need  not  tell  me  so.  This  cannot  be 
some  terrible  revenge  for  your  weakness 
or  wickedness.  Have  I  not  held  you  in 
my  arms  ?  I  should  have  known,  if  it 
had  been  you,  for  whom  our  boy  suffers." 

He  kissed  her  tenderly  and  led  her  to 
a  couch  ;  then  knelt  down  beside  her. 

"  No,  Evelyn  —  not  that.  But  you 
must  be  calm  or  you  will  lose  your  head. 
You  take  it  too  seriously.  Oscar  is  a 
baby  five  years  old.  A  five-year-old 
baby !  " 

"  And  some  day  he  will  commit 
murder.  My  God,  will  you  tell  me  to  be 
quiet  and  not  think  of  that !  " 

A  maid  entered  the  room  to  announce 
dinner. 

32 


Ill 

[RS.  SIMMONS  sat  through 
the  meal,  white  faced  and 
silent  Her  eyes  followed  her 
husband's  nervous  movements,  but  she 
did  not  seem  to  be  listening  to  his  inces 
sant  talk.  He  was  trying  to  talk  away 
the  disagreeable  thing  between  them, 
and  apparently  she  had  not  the  strength 
to. join  him  in  the  effort.  She  saw  him 
across  the  table,  strangely  apart  from 
her,  —  not  the  lover  and  husband  who 
had  been  woven  into  her  life.  He  was 
a  large,  tall  man,  with  clear  black  eyes, 
a  resounding  laugh,  and  vehement,  ex 
pressive  movements.  Compared  with 
Dr.  Vessinger  he  had  almost  a  foreign 
intensity  and  emotionality  about  him, 
D  33 


THEIR    CHILD 

which  it  occurred  to  her  suddenly  had 
become  more  prominent  during  the 
years  of  their  marriage,  just  as  his  chest 
had  broadened,  his  arms  and  hands  had 
become  thicker,  his  whole  person  had 
grown  mature. 

She  recalled  him  as  he  was  when  she 
had  first  seen  him,  in  Colorado  Springs, 
eight  years  before,  tall,  large-boned, 
awkward.  He  had  gained  from  civiliza 
tion.  The  power  that  she  had  felt  then 
in  the  rough,  she  had  tested  in  the  com 
mon  manner  of  marriage  and  had  never 
found  it  wanting  —  until  now ! 

Now,  from  this  fear  which  beset  her, 
this  trouble  growing  from  them  both  in 
the  person  and  soul  of  the  child,  she 
could  feel  no  help  in  him.  He  was 
turning  away  his  gaze  and  chattering, 
believing  only  in  gross  physical  ills, 
such  as  sickness  and  sudden  death,  loss 
of  money  and  accident,  —  calamities 
which  one  might  name  to  one's  neigh 
bors,  discuss  with  one's  doctor,  and 
bemoan  quite  aloud.  But  for  this  which 
34 


THEIR    CHILD 

was  unnamable,  the  fear  of  destiny,  he 
had  no  courage :  he  refused  to  see ! 
She  must  grope  her  way  to  the  under 
standing  of  the  riddle  ;  she  must  begin, 
alone,  the  struggle  with  the  future.  .  .  . 

The  maid  poured  Simmons  a  second 
glass  of  whiskey  and  water,  and  handed 
him  a  box  of  cigars.  He  leaned  back 
in  his  chair,  stretching  forward  his  feet 
in  physical  comfort,  emphasized  by  the 
roar  of  the  summer  tempest,  which  had 
finally  broken  in  full  fury  outside. 
Forked  streaks  of  light  illumined  the 
pallid  curtains;  furious  bursts  of  rain 
hit  sharply  the  casement  windows,  as 
with  the  thongs  of  whips.  Lull  and 
sullen  quiet ;  then  the  fury  of  the  tem 
pest —  thus  it  repeated  itself. 

Mrs.  Simmons  left  the  room,  noise 
lessly  crossing  the  hall  and  mounting 
the  stairs.  By  the  time  her  husband 
finished  his  cigar  she  had  returned, 
with  the  same  stealthy,  restless  step,  the 
same  questioning  eyes. 

"  He  is  lying  so  quietly,  Olaf,"  she 
35 


THEIR    CHILD 

said.  "  His  arm  is  doubled  under  his 
head,  and  his  little  fingers  are  open. 
His  lips  tremble  with  his  breath.  He 
is  my  angel  again !  I  cannot  believe 
anything  else.  Why  should  my  child  be 
that  demon  ? " 

Her  husband  put  his  arm  about  her 
affectionately  and  led  her  into  the 
drawing-room. 

"There  !  You  are  coming  to  look  at 
it  sensibly,  Evelyn,"  he  said  encourag 
ingly. 

She  drew  away  from  his  caress. 

"  No,  no  !  I  know  what  is  there.  I 
had  rather  see  him  dead  in  his  bed  there 
to-night  than  to  see  that  fire  in  his  eyes 
grow  and  burn  and  kill  him !  " 

Suddenly  she  burst  into  tears. 

"  To  fear  it  always.  To  think  of  it 
day  and  night.  To  know  that  it  will 
come  back  and  seize  him  some  hour 
when  I  am  not  there  to  help  him !  O 
God,  why  did  it  come  to  me?  What 
have  I  done  ? " 

She  wept  miserably,  but  when  he  tried 
36 


THEIR   CHILD 

to  comfort  her  she  held  herself  aloof. 
In  their  misery  they  were  apart,  God 
dealing  with  each  one  in  his  sorrow 
separately. 

"  Come,  Evelyn !  "  the  husband  broke 
out.  "Enough  of  this!  To-morrow 
we'll  have  in  a  doctor,  the  best  you  can 
find  in  the  city.  Maybe  he'll  just  give 
him  a  dose  of  something  and  jog  his 
liver." 

But  his  wife,  whp__had  been  standing 
besideTHe  window,  her  forehead  pressed 
UgamsT"fHe"coTd  pane,  whirled  about  and 
Faced  him. 

"  Did  you  —  ever  think  —  that  —  you 
were  old  Oscar's  son  ?  " 

"What  put  that  into  your  head?  I 
told  you  all  I  knew  —  the  story  old 
Oscar  told  me.  The  whole  camp  had 
it  the  same  way." 

"That  he  found  you  in  the  frozen 
cabin  of  those  Vermonters  up  among 
the  Rockies  ?  Your  father  and  mother 
had  died  from  cold  and  hunger,  and  he 
found  you  just  in  time  ? " 
37 


THEIR   CHILD 

"  Yes,  that  was  it" 

He  hesitated  a  moment ;  and  then  he 
adde'd  honestly : 

"  It  must  have  been  so ;  but  I  have 
never  found  a  man  who  knew  anything 
about  the  cabin,  or  those  Vermonters. 
Well,  it  made  no  difference  —  so  long  as 
you  took  me." 

"  No,  it  made  no  matter  to  me.  I 
said  so  then  when  you  asked  me  to  marry 
you."  She  waited  a  moment  before 
adding,  "  And  I  say  so  now.  Nothing 
can  make  it  any  different !  " 

"  Bless  you  for  that !  " 

But  she  quickly  parted  from  his  kiss. 

"  Tell  me  about  old  Oscar.  He  was 
rough  and  bad  at  times,  wasn't  he  ?  " 

"Yes,  rough,  —  not  bad  —  a  fierce 
customer,  a  regular  Berserker,  when  he 
was  taken  that  way,  —  when  he  was 
drunk  or  in  a  bad  humor.  But  I  don't 
want  to  think  of  that  —  he  was  so  good 
to  me,  brought  me  up,  gave  me  my  edu 
cation,  taught  me  my  profession  him 
self,  and  put  me  in  the  way  of  having 
38 


THEIR   CHILD 

a  happy  life.  It  isn't  right  to  remem 
ber  his  bad  side." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  You  never 
told  me  he  was  bad.  I  thought  you 
meant  he  was  rough  and  uneducated  — 
that  he  made  his  way  without  a  cent 
from  the  time  he  landed  in  New  York. 
What  else  do  you  mean  ?  Was  he  a 
bad  man  ?  Was  he  wicked  ? " 

The  man  walked  to  and  fro,  disturbed 
and  puzzled.  He  had  stumbled  on  the 
worst  idea  in  the  world  for  his  wife  to 
feed  her  imagination  upon,  and  yet  he 
knew  that  she  was  aroused  —  he  could 
not  put  her  off  with  excuses.  He  had 
never  told  her  of  his  old  barbarian  bene 
factor's  darker  side,  partly  because  he 
did  not  like  to  mention  rude  vices  to 
her  and  partly  because  it  seemed  dis 
loyal  to  his  kindest  friend.  And  he 
was  not  skilful  in  handling  the  truth. 
What  he  had  to  say,  he  was  forced  to 
blurt  out  plainly. 

"  Why,  it  wasn't  drawing-room  life  in 
a  Colorado  camp  in  those  days,  anyway, 
39 


THEIR   CHILD 

and  the  older  crowd  were  a  pretty  rough 
lot,  all  of  them.  Oscar  Svenson  was 
better  than  most,  generally.  But  he 
would  have  his  times  of  being  drunk 
and  disorderly,  and  he  was  such  a  big 
fellow  and  so  strong  that  when  he  got 
violent  the  camp  generally  knew  it. 
I  can  remember  once  when  I  was  a 
little  fellow  sitting  in  the  corner  of 
the  saloon  when  he  had  one  of  his 
fits.  He  was  a  giant,  a  head  taller 
than  I  am,  with  a  great  mane  of  hair 
all  over  his  head,  growing  down  the 
nape  of  his  neck  in  a  thick  mat  under 
his  shirt." 

3Ir§i__Simmons  startedJ_aiuL-twisted 
her  hands  nervously.  But  she  con 
trolled  herself. 

"  Go  on  !  " 

"  When  he  was  drunk,  he  didn't  shoot 
—  that  wasn't  his  way.  He  would  use 
his  knife,  or  take  up  a  man  in  his  arms 
and  crush  him  like  a  bear  with  his  two 
hands.  That  day  —  but,  pshaw!  It's 
all  nonsense,  my  sitting  here  and  telling 
40 


THEIR    CHILD 

you  fool  stories  to  make  you  creepy. 
The  rain  has  stopped.  I'll  tell  Tom  to 
harness  up,  and  we'll  drive  over  to  the 
Country  Club  to  see  if  they've  got  the 
election  returns  yet.  Come,  dear !  Try 
to  be  strong  and  patient." 

"  No !  I  shall  not  go  out  to-night 
one  single  step.  I  can't  get  that  cry 
out  of  my  head,  and  I  should  hear  it 
worse  if  I  were  away  from  the  house. 
Tell  me  about  that  terrible  old  man. 
Did  he  kill  a  man  before  your  eyes  ? " 

"  I  hate  to  have  you  think  of  him  so. 
He  gave  me  everything,  even  you" 

^he  smiled,  forlornly. 

"He  was  different  in  nature  from  us 
tame  folk  in  the  States.  He  came  from 
a  people  that  drink  deep  and  have  fiery 
passions,  —  big-boned,  strong-hearted 
people,  as  gentle  as  women  and  as  sav 
age  as  bulls.  I've  seen  him  —  " 

"  What  makes  you  stop  so  short, 
when  you  are  just  ready  to  tell  some 
thing  ?  I  want  to  hear  the  worst  thing 
you  remember." 


THEIR   CHILD 

He  stammered  and  hunted  for  an 
excuse. 

"Come,  come.  It's  all  rot.  They 
tell  stories  about  men.  Such  a  fellow 
as  old  Oscar  Svenson  you  must  make 
allowances  for,  take  the  good  with  the 
bad.  There  were  plenty  of  better  men 
tntm-fre  aT  his  worst,  but  few  as  good  as 
he  at"  his~^asLirYou  can't  line  such 
men  up  with  meeting-house  folk.  I'll 
tell  you  how  he  saved  the  Irish  family 
off  Keepsake  trail,  all  alone.  But  it  is 
stifling  here.  Come  out  to  the  terrace, 
now  the  rain  has  stopped." 

There  they  sat  together  on  a  bench 
in  the  corner  of  the  terrace,  while  he 
told  the  story  of  old  Oscar's  magnifi 
cent  courage  and  will.  The  big  Nor 
wegian  had  ploughed  his  way  ten 
miles  up  the  mountains  in  a  blinding 
snowstorm  to  carry  food  to  a  woman 
and  some  children.  The  woman's 
husband  was  too  cowardly  to  leave 
the  camp.  And  when  old  Oscar  had 
reached  the  cabin,  finding  one  child 
42 


THEIR   CHILD 

sick,  he  had  gone  back  to  the  camp  for 
medicine. 

As  Simmons  told  the  story,  the  stars 
came  out  in  the  soft  summer  heavens ; 
the  damp  odor  of  cut  grass  filled  the 
air.  The  parched  earth,  having  drunk, 
breathed  forth.  But  the  woman's  tense 
gaze  never  softened.  When  he  had  fin 
ished,  she  said : 

"  Now  you  must  tell  me  the  worst 
thing  he  ever  did.  I  will  know  it !  " 

"They  say  he  threw  a  man  over  a 
precipice  once,  and  nearly  broke  his 
back.  The  fellow  had  been  stealing 
water,  when  there  wasn't  enough  to 
go  around,  and  he  had  had  his  share. 
He  lied  about  it,  too.  Old  Oscar 
just  chucked  him  off  the  trail  like  a 
rat.  He  would  call  that  justice.  I 
don't  know.  That  was  before  I  knew 
him." 

She  shivered,  and  held  her  husband's 
hand  more  tightly. 

"  Go  on  !  " 

"There  were  other  stories  of  the 
43 


THEIR   CHILD 

same  thing;   well,  we'd  call  it  murder 
now,  maybe  ! " 

And  she  forced  him  to  tell  much  — 
the  dark  deeds  of  this  old  Berserker  in 
his  mad  rages,  —  swift,  brutal  love, 
murder  —  all  that  the  furies  of  blood 
drive  a  man  to  do.  Bit  by  bit,  she  had 
them  all,  —  stories  whispered  here  and 
there  on  the  slopes  of  mountains,  in  far- 
off  mining  camps  and  towns,  where  the 
Norseman  had  spent  his  life;  things 
remembered  out  of  that  rough  childhood 
for  which  she  had  pitied  her  husband, 
for  which  she  had  loved  him  the  more, 
with  a  woman's  desire  to  make  the  bitter 
sweet.  As  the  soft  summer  night  got 
on,  she  heard  the  story  of  that  killing, 
the  sole  one  which  he  had  seen  with  his 
own  eyes.  He  had  locked  it  tight 
within  his  breast  all  the  years  since : 
the  quarrel  with  a  friend  about  some 
insignificant  trifle,  the  burst  of  anger, 
the  sudden  blow,  and  then,  while  the 
boy  tried  to  part  the  men,  a  strange 
look  of  wonder  on  the  fierce  face  from 
44 


THEIR    CHILD 

which  the  red  passion  was  paling. 
And  the  next  morning  forgetfulness 
of  it  all! 

"But  it  troubled  him  always  like  a 
bad  dream — he  could  never  remember 
exactly  what  he  had  done.  He  never 
thought  /  knew." 

She  rose  from  the  bench  and  walked 
away  from  him  to  the  end  of  the 
terrace. 

"  And»jny  Evelyn,"  he  pleaded,  "  you 
lovecLrne  first  because  he  had  been  all  I 
had  bad.  Yoii.asked  nothing  of  me  — 
you-^ave-me  all  your  love  gladly." 

He  had  an  uneasy  feeling  that  some 
thing  strange  and  impalpable  was  push 
ing  its  way  between  them. 

"Yes,"  she  murmured.  "It  was  —  a 
long  time  ago." 

"  Seven  years.     Is  that  a  long  time  ?  " 

"Yes.  I  was  a  girl  then.  It  is  al 
ways  a  long  time  to  when  one  was  a 
girl." 

"  It  doesn't  seem  to  me  a  long  time !  " 

"  Well,  it's  a  great  while  since,  since 
45 


THEIR   CHILD 

this  came  up  —  like  a  mountain.  The 
past  is  on  the  other  side." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  No 
kind  of  trouble  should  divide  man  and 
wife ! " 

For  a  few  moments  there  was  silence ; 
then  she  cried,  in  the  accent  of  reproach, 
of  accusation : 

"  Can't  you  see  ?   You  were  his  child !  " 

"  Old  Oscar's  ?  .  .  .  Sometimes  I  have 
thought  it  might  be  so.  I  am  dark  like 
him.  But  we  can  never  know  it  now." 

"/  know  it!  The  devil  in  that  bad 
old  man  has  slept  in  you  and  is  waking 
in  little  Oscar,  —  my  child,  my  child ! 
That  is  what  you  have  brought  me  for 
my  love.  I  took  you  because  I  loved 
you,  because  I  was  mad  to  have  you.  I 
wanted  you  just  for  myself,  just  to  give 
me  joy.  Now !  Now !  .  .  .  I  can  sit 
and  watch  the  child  who  is  me  fight 
with  that  devil.  Oh !  there  is  nothing 
but  pain!" 


46 


IV 


[OODS  of  the  night  pass  with 
their  tragic  glooms,  and  the 
first  lines  of  sorrow  fade  into 
dull  distaste  and  distant  apprehension. 
Husband  and  wife  met  day  by  day,  and 
slowly  the  black  cloud  between  them 
became  imperceptibly  mist :  the  man 
dared  raise  his  eyes  to  that  pitiable  face, 
and  the  silent  wife  began  to  speak. 
Doctors  had  come  and  applied  their 
poultices  against  panic,  —  the  vast  cir 
cle  of  probabilities,  the  excellences  of 
regimen. 

Then  the  engineer,  in  the  fulfilment 
of  his  business  engagements,  had  gone 
away  for  six  weeks,  which  the  mother 
and  child  had  spent  at  the  seacoast  for 
a  change  of  air.  Early  in  September 
47 


THEIR   CHILD 

they  were  living  once  more  in  the  pleas 
ant  country  house  outside  the  great 
city,  and  husband  and  wife  were  talking 
almost  confidently  of  what  they  should 
do  in  this  matter  and  that,  speaking  with 
more  and  more  certainty  as  the  days 
slipped  past.  Something  grave  in  the 
woman's  voice,  a  touch  of  doubt  in  the 
glance  between  them — those  signs  alone 
remained,  and  the  memory. 

Another  trip  to  the  mines  was  to  be 
made ;  the  date  of  departure  Simmons 
put  off,  in  order  that  he  might  take  his 
wife  to  the  large  dance  at  the  Bellflowers'. 
On  this  day  he  returned  from  the  city 
by  an  early  afternoon  train.  When  the 
coachman  drew  up  before  the  house,  no 
one  could  be  seen  about  the  place. 
Simmons  called  out  heartily : 

"  I  say,  where  are  you  ?  Is  any  one 
about  ?  Evelyn  !  " 

Windows  and  doors  were  open;  the 
summer  wind  blew  through  the  house. 
There  was  a  vacancy  about  it  all  which 
impressed  the  man. 
48 


THEIR   CHILD 

"  There  was  somethin'  or  other  goin' 
on  when  I  hitched  up,"  the  coachman 
ventured  to  remark.  "  There  were  a  lot 
of  hollerin'  and  screamin',  sir ;  somethin' 
up  with  the  children." 

He  had  the  air  of  being  able  to  tell 
more  if  necessary.  Mr.  Simmons  jumped 
to  the  ground  and  entered  the  house. 
A  servant,  who  finally  appeared  in  an 
swer  to  his  repeated  calls,  told  him  that 
she  had  seen  Mrs.  Simmons  crossing  the 
meadow  below  the  lawn,  in  the  direction 
of  the  little  river  at  the  bottom  of  the 
grounds.  She  had  little  Oscar  with  her, 
so  said  the  maid,  and  she  seemed  to  be 
hurrying. 

He  hastened  to  the  little  boat-house 
on  the  river.  Hot  summer  afternoons  it 
was  a  common  thing  for  his  wife  to  row 
upon  the  river,  yet  every  moment  he 
quickened  his  steps  until  he  was  on  the 
run.  From  the  meadow  wall  he  could 
see  his  boat  tied  to  a  stake  in  the  stream, 
riding  tranquilly.  Evelyn  was  not  on 
the  river.  He  followed  the  foot-path, 
E  49 


THEIR    CHILD 


hesitatingly,  beside  the  sluggish  stream, 
calling  in  a  voice  which  he  tried  to  make 
quite  natural : 

"  Evelyn !  Oscar !  Evelyn  —  where 
are  you  ? " 

There  was  a  yard  or  two  of  sandy 
beach  beside  the  boat-house,  and  there 
he  found  them.  His  wife  was  kneeling 
down  on  the  sand,  her  face  to  the  river, 
engaged  in  hurriedly  undressing  the 
child.  She  had  him  almost  stripped  of 
his  clothes,  and  she  was  talking  to  him, 
while  he  listened  with  the  attention,  the 
thoughtfulness,  of  a  man.  Suddenly 
spying  his  father,  he  laughed  and  broke 
from  his  mother's  arms. 

"  There's  Dad !  "  he  cried.  "Are  you 
going  away,  too,  with  mamma  and  me  ? 
She's  going  to  take  me  far  out  into  the 
river,  away  and  away,  and  we  are  never 
coming  back  any  more,  never  going  to 
play  any  more  up  there  on  the  lawn !  " 

His  voice  rose  in  the  childish  treble 
of  wonder,  and  he  added,  after  a  mo 
ment  : 


"  HIS   WIFE   WAS    .    .    .    HURRIEDLY    UNDRESSING 
THE  CHILD." 


THEIR   CHILD 

"  Now  you  come,  too,  Dad." 

"  Evelyn  !     What  does  this  mean  ? " 

She  had  risen  hastily  when  little 
Oscar  called  out  to  his  father.  Her 
eyes  were  red  with  tears,  and  her  hands 
shook  with  nervousness. 

"  I  thought  it  would  be  all  done,  all 
over,  before  you  came,"  she  murmured. 
"  But  he  would  not  come  with  me  unless 
I  took  off  his  clothes.  I  tried  to  take 
him  in  my  arms,  but  he  broke  away." 

The  man  shuddered  as  he  gradually 
comprehended  what  it  meant.  Little 
Oscar  ran  back  to  his  mother  and  put 
his  face  close  to  hers. 

"  Mamma  is  sick,"  he  said  gently. 
"  You  must  take  her  home  and  put  her 
to  bed  and  have  Dora  sing  to  her." 

His  lithe  little  body  danced  up  and 
down.  The  hot  wind  waved  his  black 
curls  around  his  neck.  His  mother 
pushed  him  away. 

"  Take  him,"  she  groaned.  "  It  kills 
me  to  look  at  him." 

Simmons    gathered    up    the    child's 


THEIR    CHILD 

clothes  and  began  to  put  them  on  the 
dancing  figure. 

"What  has  crazed  you?"  he  de 
manded  roughly  of  his  wife. 

"  I  will  tell  you  —  when  he  is  gone," 
she  answered  wearily,  leaning  her  head 
against  the  shingled  wall  of  the  boat- 
house. 

Little  Oscar  ran  to  and  fro  in  his 
drawers,  wet  the  tips  of  his  feet,  and 
threw  sand  into  the  water,  while  his 
father  was  trying  to  dress  him.  Finally 
the  mother  took  the  child,  put  on  his 
shirt,  and  told  him  to  run  home.  He 
dashed  into  the  thicket  of  alders  beside 
the  river  with  a  shout.  Soon  they  heard 
his  voice  in  the  meadow,  ringing  with 
the  joy  of  living,  the  animal  utterance 
of  life. 

•"It  was  this  afternoon,"  the  mother 
explained.  "  The  Porters'  children  and 
the  Boyces'  boy  were  playing  on  the 
terrace.  Dora  was  away.  I  was  read 
ing  in  my  bedroom  —  I  had  told  Dora 
I  would  look  after  the  children.  I  must 
52 


THEIR   CHILD 

have  dropped  asleep  with  the  heat  — 
perhaps  a  minute,  perhaps  longer.  Sud 
denly,  \felt  something  fearful.  I  seemed 
to  hear  a  choking,  a  gurgling.  When  I 
jumped  up,  awake,  everything  was  still, 
quiet,  —  too  quiet,  I  thought ;  and  I  ran 
to  the  window  over  the  terrace." 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands 
to  shut  out  the  sight  of  it,  and  the  rest 
came  brokenly  through  her  smothered 
lips : 

"  Oscar  was  there — he  and  little  Ned 
Boyce.  Ned  was  lying  —  down  on  the 
brick  floor  —  and  Oscar  had  his  hands 
about  his  throat  choking  him.  I  must 
have  screamed.  Oscar  jumped  up,  and 
looked  around.  He  said  —  he  said  just 
like  himself,  — '  What  is  it,  mamma  ? ' ' 

She  stopped  again  and  swallowed  her 
tears. 

"When  I  got  down  there,  Ned  was 
white  and  still.  I  thought  he  was  dead. 
It  was  a  long,  long  time  before  he  got 
his  breath,  before  he  was  himself.  If,  if 
I  hadn't  wakened  just  then  —  " 
53 


THEIR   CHILD 

Above  them  in  the  mottled  sunshine 
on  the  lawn  they  could  see  little  Oscar 
running,  then  stopping  and  listening, 
like  some  sprite  escaped  from  the  river 
alders.  The  man  watched  him  spring 
ing  over  the  turf,  his  little  shirt  flutter 
ing  in  the  breeze,  and  gradually  his 
head  sank.  Then  he  straightened  him 
self,  and  taking  his  wife's  hand  led 
her  back  along  the  river  path  into  the 
meadow. 

"  Ned  Boyce  is  a  bad-tempered  little 
fellow :  he  irritated  and  exasperated 
Oscar  until  with  the  heat  and  all  that 
he  clutched  him.  We  must  think  so  at 
any  rate.  I'll  lick  it  out  of  him,  if  I 
catch  him  at  it !  "  He  ended  with  this 
feeble,  masculine  threat,  this  desire  to 
take  his  exasperation  out  on  somebody 
else  —  to  be  paid  for  his  distress  of 
mind.  "  But  it  frightens  me  to  think  of 
your  coming  here  and  thinking  of  doing 
such  a  thing  !  " 

He  turned  his  mood  of  reproach 
directly  to  her. 

54 


THEIR    CHILD 

"  If  you  had  seen  Ned  lying  there  so 
white  —  it  was  whole  minutes  before  he 
opened  his  eyes,"  —  she  protested ;  and 
then  it  seemed  to  come  over.. her  in  a 
wave  thatrin  her  struggle  with  this  evil 
she  was  alone, —  her  husband  did  not 
really  understand  what__it  meant.  To 
him  it  was  trouble,,  like  difficulty  with 
servants,: — something  which  his  buoyant 
nature  refused  to  take  altogether  seri 
ously.  For  him  there  was  always  a 
way  out  of  a  situation  :  to  her  there  was 
no  avenue  out  in  this  situation..  She 
took  her  hand  from  his  arm  and  stepped 
forth  steadily  by  herself. 

She  had  done  him  wrong !  In  his 
slower,  less  vivid  mind,  the  tragedy 
was  printing  itself.  He  no  longer  could 
talk  comfort.  Something  heavy  and 
hard  settled  down  on  his  spirit :  he  saw 
himself  and  this  tender  woman  caught 
in  a  rocky  bed  of  circumstance.  In  the 
gloom  of  his  mind  he  could  see  no  light, 
and  he  groaned. 

Thus,  together  they  mounted  the 
55 


THEIR   CHILD 

slope  of  the  lawn  to  the  pleasant  cottage, 
side  by  side  and  yet  withdrawn  from 
one  another.  As  they  reached  the 
terrace  little  Oscar  darted  out,  like  a 
fleet  arrow,  from  the  big  syringa  where 
he  had  lain  hidden.  His  voice  rippled 
with  joy  : 

"  You're  so  slow,  you  two !  Do  you 
see  what  I  got?  A  piece  of  Mary's 
Sunday  cake.  And  thafs  what's  left. 
I'll  give  you  that,  mamma,  if  you'll  be 
good." 

"  Take  him  away !  "  his  mother  ex 
claimed  fretfully.  "  I  can't  look  at  him 
yet.  I  have  had  enough  for  one  day." 

She  entered  the  house  and  locked  her 
self  in  her  room.  Later,  when  her 
husband  knocked,  she  opened  the  door ; 
she  had  been  sitting  before  her  dressing- 
table,  looking  vacantly  into  the  mirror. 

"  I  don't  suppose  you  want  to  go  over 
there  to  their  party?"  he  ventured 
timidly.  "I'll  send  Tom  over  with  a 
note." 

"  Why  would  I  not  go  ?  Why  should 
56 


THEIR    CHILD 

I  stay  at  home  ?  Is  [this  the  sort  of 
place  a  woman  would  want  to  stay  in  all 
the  time,  do  you  think?  Heavens!  if 
anything  could  make  me  forget  for  one 
quarter  of  an  hour  this  idea,  —  anything, 
I  would  go  —  and  sin  for  it  too!  Do 
you  understand  ? " 

The  man's  face  winced  for  the  pain 
she  had  to  bear.  Again  she  burst  out, 
looking  into  the  mirror,  her  hair  fallen 
about  her  strong  young  breast  and 
shoulders : 

"  You  brought  this  to  me,  you !  Why 
didn't  something  tell  me  of  all  that  was 
hidden  away  in  you,  all  that  some  day 
would  come  out  from  you  and  be  mine  ? 
You  did  not  let  me  know.  Now  I  can 
not  get  away  from  it !  O  my  God ! 
Why  do  you  make  me  live  ?  What 
right  have  you  to  make  me  live  and 
endure  ? " 

He  did  not  resent  her  bitter  re 
proaches.  It  was  the  instinctive  recoil 
of  her  young  body  from  terrible  suffer 
ing,  the  first  twitch  of  the  flesh  from  the 
57 


THEIR    CHILD 

knife.  There  were  no  tears  left  in  the 
eyes  now ;  nothing  shone  there  but  pas 
sion  and  resentment. 

"  Stay  at  home  ?  It's  the  night  of  all 
others  I'd  go  somewhere — get  some 
thing.  No !  I  won't  give  in.  I'll  get  away 
from  it,  forget  it,  and  be  happy  again. 
I  will  —  see  me  do  it.  ...  They  dine  at 
half-past  eight.  Have  the  carriage  at 
eight.  I  shall  be  ready." 

He  walked  to  and  fro  in  the  dressing- 
room,  wishing  to  say  something  that 
could  soften  her  mood.  At  last  he  put 
his  hand  gently  on  her  beautiful  bare 
shoulders  and  lowered  his  face  to  hers. 

"We  must  take  this  together,  love," 
he  whispered  simply. 

"  Don't  speak  of  it !  "  she  cried,  draw 
ing  herself  from  his  touch.  "  Don't 
touch  me.  I  shall  go  mad,  mad !  You 
will  have  two  instead  of  one,  then." 


V 


OUR  husband  seems  to  be 
having  a  good  time,"  Dr. 
Vessinger  observed,  twirling 
his  champagne  glass  between  his  strong 
bony  fingers.  "  Does  he  often  enjoy 
—  these  good  spirits  —  this  —  enthusi 
asm  ? " 

Below  them  in  the  main  portion  of 
the  large  dining-room  of  Mrs.  Bell- 
flower's  house,  the  guests  were  supping 
at  small  tables.  Dr.  Vessinger  had 
captured  one  of  the  few  tables  in  the 
breakfast  room  at  one  side.  Simmons 
was  seated  next  to  Mrs.  Bellflower.  His 
good-natured,  bearded  face  was  thrown 
back,  and  his  eyes  shone  with  cham 
pagne.  His  wife  looked  at  him  with 
59 


THEIR    CHILD 

surprise;  she  had  not  noticed  him  be 
fore.  He  was  talking  a  great  deal,  and 
repeating  what  he  said  to  right  and 
left,  in  a  loud  voice,  with  much  laughter. 
She  could  not  hear  what  he  was  saying, 
but  she  divined  that  it  was  silly. 

"  No !  I  never  saw  him  so  —  excited, 
before,"  she  answered  her  companion. 
"  He  doesn't  usually  drink  champagne." 

"  He  seems  to  like  it  rather  well,"  the 
doctor  replied,  watching  him  drain  a 
fresh  glass.  "  It's  a  good  thing  to  have 
such  good  spirits,  isn't  it  ? "  He  turned 
his  eyes  to  hers,  and  raised  his  glass. 
"  To  your  beautiful  self,  Evelyn !  " 

She  could  feel  the  warmth  of  her 
blood  as  it  rushed  over  her  face  and 
neck,  at  his  deliberate  words. 

"Why  do  you  call  me  that?"  she 
asked  brusquely. 

"You  may  remember  that  I  called 
you  that  once  before,"  he  replied,  unper 
turbed  ;  "  and  then  you  had  no  objec 
tion  to  my  familiarity." 

They  were  both  silent,  while  in  their 
60 


THEIR   CHILD 

minds  rose  that  "  once  before "  :  the 
roses  blooming  in  the  Sicilian  garden, 
husbanded  by  bees ;  the  young  Ameri 
can  doctor  sent  south  to  recover  from 
a  sickness ;  the  romance  of  their  hearts 
beating  in  unison  with  the  romance  of 
the  place. 

Gradually  her  eyes  fell  from  the 
doctor's  face.  For,  later,  she  had  for 
gotten  him,  measured  him  by  another 
and  found  him  less  than  she  desired. 
She  had  sent  him  away,  the  young 
American  doctor  of  the  Sicilian  garden, 
and  had  never  thought  to  ask  herself 
before,  whether  she  could  regret  it. 
Now  she  raised  her  eyes  to  his  face  and 
wondered  whether  she  were  regretting  it. 

He  was  handsome  and  mundane.  In 
those  eight  years  he  had  pushed  him 
self  from  obscurity  to  a  point  of  worldly 
ease.  Perhaps  she  had  done  that  for 
him  by  sending  him  away !  To  her, 
now,  though  married,  he  was  more  inter 
esting  than  ever  before.  What  she  had 
done  to  him  then  he  had  surmounted ; 
61 


THEIR    CHILD 

and  now,  somehow,  it  seemed  the  gods 
had  put  the  cards  into  his  hands. 

Suddenly,  while  she  was  wondering, 
he  leaned  nearer  to  her  and  said : 

"You  are  miserable.  I  can  tell  it 
from  the  lines  in  your  forehead.  And 
your  eyes  are  hot  with  fever." 

He  spoke  impersonally ;  it  was  like 
the  soothing  hand  of  the  physician 
to  his  patient.  Simmons  was  laughing 
still  more  hilariously,  and  his  neighbor, 
the  Magnificent  Wreck,  was  laughing 
with  him ;  those  near  them  were  shout 
ing  and  clapping  their  hands ;  they  were 
urging  him  to  do  something.  To  his 
wife  it  all  seemed  silly. 

"  Does  that  worry  you  ?  "  continued 
Vessinger,  following  her  eyes. 

She  looked  at  her  husband  again  with 
a  sudden  sense  of  detachment  from  him. 
He  was  foolish,  like  a  child,  and  she 
suspected  why  he  was  foolish  and  drank 
too  much :  he  wished  not  to  think.  She 
despised  his  male  way  of  trying  to  es 
cape  from  himself.  His  was  the  man's 
62 


THEIR    CHILD 

simple,  coarse  instinct  —  to  drink,  to 
laugh,  to  forget ! 

Suddenly  he  was  just  a  man_  in  black 
and  white,  like  all  the_  others  who  had 
come  to  her  that  evening  a«d~said  words 
and  smiled  and  danced  and  gone  away. 
He  was  just  a  man,  like  one-half  creation. 
-"  Yes,"  she  replied  steadily  to  the  doc 
tor.  "I  am  miserable.  Does  it  make 
you  .happy  to  know  that  V 

She  did  not  comprehend  what  infer 
ences  he  might  draw  from  the  juxtapo 
sition  of  acts  and  words. 

"  In  a  way,  it  does,"  he  answered 
calmly.  "  But  I  shouldn't  let  that 
bother  you.  Our  hostess,  good  woman, 
loves  a  laughing  guest,  and  your  hus 
band  is  colossal.  The  best  of  men  for 
get  themselves,  you  know,  and  on  the 
morrow  they  are  ashamed.  A  good 
wife  forgives — that  is  her  metier" 

The    racket    below    increased    until 

every  one  stopped  his  earing  or  his  talk 

to  find  out  what  made  the  disturbance. 

Simmons  was  rising  somewhat  unsteadily 

63 


THEIR   CHILD 

to  his  feet.  His  tie  had  come  undone. 
His  large  brown  eyes,  usually  twinkling 
with  gentle  kindliness,  flashed  with  the 
passion  of  the  moment. 

"  Bravo !  Simmons  !  Bravo !  A 
song ! "  rose  from  some  of  the  guests. 
"  Sing  your  old  song,  Sim !  "  one  called 
out.  The  guests  jostled  into  the  dining 
room,  deserting  the  terrace,  where  they 
had  been  supping  and  flirting.  There 
were  some  among  the  men  who  had 
been  at  the  School  of  Mines  and  knew 
his  college  fame. 

"  So  your  husband  sings  ?  "  Dr.  Ves- 
singer  asked. 

"We  will  hear,"  his  wife  replied 
tranquilly.  "  Listen  !  " 

The  drinking  song,  which  was  not 
meant  for  dinner-parties  where  any 
proprieties  were  observed,  rolled  out, 
at  first  uncertainly  and  then  with 
greater  force.  At  the  end  of  the 
stanza,  young  men's  voices  from  all 
over  the  house  shouted  out  the  chorus. 
One  or  £wo  of  the  older  men  shook 
64 


THEIR  CHILD 

their  heads,  and  while  laughing  said : 
"  No,  no.  That's  too  bad !  Some  one 
should  stop  him." 

"  It  seems  to  take,"  Dr.  Vessinger 
murmured  to  Mrs.  Simmons.  "  He  has 
chosen  that  moment  of  inspiration  when 
we  are  all  drunk  enough  to  think  it  a 
great  song  and  not  too  drunk  to  join 
the  chorus.  Bravo !  More,  more !  " 
he  called  with  those  who  were  ap 
plauding. 

It  was,  apparently,  a  tremendous  suc 
cess.  Men  were  patting  Simmons  on 
the  back,  and  a  servant  was  filling  his 
glass  with  champagne.  The  calls  for 
another  stanza  grew  more  clamorous. 

His  wife  looked  at  him  stonily.  She 
did  not  make  much  of  his  unaccustomed 
drinking,  of  the  spectacle  he  was  offer 
ing  of  himself  to  their  public.  She  was 
wondering  at  his  male  mind.  How 
could  he  find  it  in  him  —  just  now  with 
the  truth  they  both  knew  but  two  hours 
cold  in  his  memory  —  how  could  he 
find  the  heart  to  drink  and  sing  ?  She 
65 


THEIR    CHILD 

had  said  to  him  defiantly  that  she  would 
get  joy  in  spite  of  all.  But  was  there 
anything  in  life  which  could  make  her 
drink  and  sing  and  forget  ?  Her  heart 
was  shut  to  pleasure,  and  she  looked 
at  him  coldly,  as  one  might  look  at  a 
bad  actor  who  is  much  applauded. 


He,  poor  man!  had  sat  down  to  the 
feast  with  the  twin  devils  of  despair  and 
remorse  by  his  side.  The  others  around 
him  laughed  and  were  merry.  Why 
should  his  food  taste  bitter  when  to 
them  it  seemed  sweet  ?  Why  should  his 
be  the  wife  and  his  the  child  ?  He  felt 
himself  to  be  a  common  man,  and  wished 
to  have  their  taste  for  the  feast,  their 
content  with  common  life.  So  he  be 
gan  to  drink  because  it  was  pleasant 
to  drink.  The  devils  faded  as  the  spirit 
of  champagne  entered  him.  At  last  he 
was  comfortable,  and  then  happy.  The 
woman  by  his  side,  the  Magnificent 
Wreck,  became  beautiful,  witty,  and 
66 


THEIR   CHILD 

Alluring.  The  woman  at  his  left  smiled 
with  a  pretty  doll's  smile,  showing  her 
nice  teeth,  white  like  porcelain.  He 
was  drunk ;  he  knew  it,  and  he  was 
happy ! 

So  he  wanted  to  sing,  to  make  the 
room  ring  with  his  new  joy.  There 
seemed  to  open  a  concealed  door  in  his 
mind,  and  out  tramped  words  and 
sounds,  expressing  beautiful,  happy 
feelings ;  he  was  singing.  .  .  . 

"  On  the  table  !  On  the  table  !  "  they 
shouted  to  him.  "  Up,  up  !  " 

The  older  men  were  trying  to  calm 
the  racket  to  a  more  decorous  note. 
But  already  they  had  cleared  the  dishes 
and  glass  from  his  end  of  the  table,  and 
the  Magnificent  Wreck,  with  glistening 
eyes,  was  applauding,  urging  him  on.  He 
hopped  on  his  chair,  like  a  boy,  as  he 
had  done  years  ago  at  college  dinners. 
He  placed  one  foot  on  the  table  to 
steady  himself,  raised  the  long-stemmed 
wine-glass  above  his  head,  and,  less  cer 
tainly,  out  rolled  the  second  stanza. 
67 


THEIR   CHILD 

It  was  good  to  be  drunk,  if  this  were 
being  drunk !  Again,  with  all  the  vol 
ume  of  the  first  time,  sprang  the  notes 
of  the  chorus. 

Simmons  raised  his  long-stemmed 
glass  and  waved  it  slowly  in  a  circle 
above  his  head.  They  clapped  and 
stamped  and  sang  over  again  the 
chorus. 

"Why  not  leave  ?  Why  inflict  this 
on  yourself  ? "  the  doctor  asked  his 
companion. 

"  That  does  not  make  me  miserable," 
she  answered  coldly,  recognizing  how  he 
had  mistaken  her.  "  It  is  foolish,  of 
course,  to  drink  too  much.  He  will  be 
sorry  to-morrow." 

"  What  is  it  then  that  burns  your  eyes, 
and  gives  you  that  look  of  pain  ? " 

"  I  will  never  tell  you !  " 

"  Perhaps  I  can  guess,"  he  answered 
at  random. 

Her  eyes  lost  their  defiance.  Per 
haps  this  subtle  doctor,  who  could 
read  the  miseries  of  life,  had  seen 
68 


THEIR    CHILD 

and  comprehended  all,  that  afternoon 
when  he  had  come  to  call.  The  shame 
that  she  vowed  to  herself  he  should  know 
last  of  all,  he  knew,  perchance,  best  of 
all. 

"  Don't  reject  my  sympathy,"  he 
added.  "  I  pity  you." 

His  voice,  had  softened  from  the  tone 
of  irony.  His :. gentleness  "broIceI3o.3Kn 
her  pride.  There  was  somethingJiu- 
manly  warm  and  kindly  in  his  sym- 

J  • — *-«*—-- — -  .-i rf     - 

pathy.  It  seemed  to  reach  farther  than 
her  husband's.  A  mist  gathered  in  her 
eyes,  and  she  lowered  her  head  that  he 
might  not  see  the  possible  tears  and  the 
quivering  lips.  .  .  . 

Would  her  fate  have  been  thus  cruel, 
if,  in  the  years  gone  by,  in  the  Sicilian 
garden,  she  had  preferred  this  man, — 
if  this  man,  who  loved  her,  had  been 
bound  with  her  ?  Would  she  have 
known  the  clutch  of  terror  and  felt  the 
wound  from  the  arms  of  her  son  ?  The 
child  who  was  hers  and  another's — might 
he  not  have  been  wholly  hers  ? 
69 


THEIR    CHILD 

She  thought  bitterly  how  the  male 
heart  had  its  escape  from  misery,  —  such 
an  easy,  common  one !  She  wanted  her 
escape.  She  could  not  drink  and  shout; 
she  could  fly,  leave  the  terror  behind 
her,  and  seeljL~-a  -A£_w_  self_jn 


"  To  one  that  loves  you  as  I  do,  your 
misery  is  his  misery,  and  your  despair 
is  his." 

She  felt  that  she  should  resent 
his  words,  but  her  heart  welcomed 
them. 

There  was  a  cry  in  the  room  below 
them,  then  a  crash,  and  the  song  came 
to  an  inglorious  end.  Simmons  had 
circled  the  swaying  yellow  ball  of  spar 
kling  wine  in  too  ample  an  arc.  The 
champagne  dashed  upon  the  laughing, 
upturned  face  of  their  hostess  ;  the  glass 
shattered  on  the  floor.  A  kindly  hand 
saved  Simmons  from  falling. 

Dr.  Vessinger's  sharp  eyes  detected 
the  glance  of  contempt  in  the  wife's 
face. 

70 


THEIR   CHILD 

"  I  think  a  breath  of  night  air  would 
suit  us  both  better  than  this  hubbub," 
he  suggested,  opening  the  casement 
window  behind  him.  "  Will  you  take 
my  arm,  Evelyn  ?  " 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  a  sense  of 
duty  to  be  done  detaining  her.  Then, 
with  another  look  at  her  husband,  at 
the  noisy  room  of  flushed  people,  repug 
nance  mounted  too  high ;  she  placed 
her  hand  on  the  doctor's  arm,  and 
stepped  down  to  the  terrace  beneath 
the  casement.  Beyond  lay  the  scented 
gardens,  the  breadth  of  cool  heavens, 
the  velvet  darkness  outside  the  range  of 
light  from  the  cottage  windows,  pointed 
in  places  by  tall  poplars. 

"  Let  us  get  beyond  the  sound  of  their 
noise,"  the  doctor  murmured,  drawing 
her  more  closely  to  him.  A  fresh  burst 
of  laughter,  doubtless  caused  by  some 
new  antic  of  her  husband,  sped  her  steps 
away  from  the  band  of  light  about  the 
house.  She  shivered  with  distaste  of  it. 
Not  that !  Rather  to  flee  away  in  the 


THEIR    CHILD 

cool,  dark  night,  away  forever  from  the 
life  which  she  had  known  and  which 
was  a  failure,  —  to  find  escape  from  the 
threatening  horror  which  was  hers  and 
his! 

Vessinger  drew  her  wrap  more  closely 
about  her,  with  an  air  of  domination, 
and  she  followed  submissively  through 
the  deserted  alleys  of  the  dark  garden, 
listening  to  his  tense  words,  in  a  leth 
argy  of  spirit.  .  .  . 

There  was  an  eruption  from  the 
brilliant  house.  Men's  voices  reached 
the  pair  in  the  garden.  The  voices 
protested,  coaxed ;  for  a  time  they  faded 
away  to  the  other  side  of  the  house. 
Then  they  returned,  and  the  woman  in 
the  garden  heard  her  husband  speaking 
thickly  and  loudly. 

"  That's  all  right,  boys.  But  I  must 
find  my  wife,  first.  Dixey  says  he 
saw  her  go  out  here,  when  I  was 
singing." 

She    started    involuntarily,    but    the 
doctor  restrained  her. 
72 


THEIR   CHILD 

"  They  will  take  him  away,"  he  whis 
pered,  "in  a  minute." 

Evidently  that  was  what  his  compan 
ions  were  endeavoring  to  do,  but 
Simmons  with  drunken  obstinacy  per 
sisted  in  his  point. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  in  his  loud,  confident 
voice,  "I'll  go  with  you  all  right,  just 
as  soon  as  I  find  my  wife.  Never  left 
my  wife.  It  wouldn't  be  right,  you 
know !  " 

She  slipped  her  arm  from  her  com 
panion,  and  walked  rapidly  toward  the 
terrace,  Vessinger  following  her. 

"  I  am  here,  Olaf,"  she  said,  going  up 
to  the  knot  of  men.  "  Are  you  looking 
forme?" 

His  companions  separated  awkwardly, 
—  all  but  one,  who  held  Simmons's  sway 
ing  figure. 

"  That  you,  Evelyn  ?  Wanted  to  tell 
you  that  I  am  going  in  town  with  these 
fellows.  Let  me  get  the  carriage  for 
you.  Don't  mind  going  home  alone,  do 
you,  Evelyn  ? " 

73 


THEIR   CHILD 

"  I  will  take  Mrs.  Simmons  to  her 
carriage,"  Vessinger  offered,  stepping 
forward. 

"  Excuse  me  ! "  Simmons  replied, 
waving  him  back.  "  Will  you  take  my 
arm,  Evelyn  ? " 

Together  in  some  fashion,  they 
reached  the  porte-cochere,  and  there 
again  Vessinger  tried  to  put  Mrs.  Sim 
mons  in  the  carriage,  to  whisper  a  word 
privately  to  her. 

"  Shan't  I  drive  back  with  Mrs.  Sim 
mons  ?  "  he  asked.  Simmons  wavered 
unsteadily,  looking  at  Vessinger  all  the 
time.  Then  he  said  very  distinctly  : 

"  No  thank  you,  Vessinger.  We  can 
trust  the  coachman,  —  good  man,  the 
coachman." 

He  handed  his  wife  to  the  carriage. 

"  Won't  you  come,  Olaf  ?  "  she  asked. 
"  I  think  you  had  better  come  with  me." 

Her  tone  was  cold  and  hard.  The 
man  drew  himself  up  quickly. 

"Thank  you,  Evelyn.  I  had  rather 
not.  Good-night." 

74 


THEIR    CHILD 

He  closed  the  carriage  door,  and 
turned  to  the  men,  who  had  been  awk 
wardly  watching  the  performance  from 
a  distance. 

"  Drive  on,  Tom.     Ready  now,  boys." 


75 


VI 


HE  morrow  was  close  and  sul 
try.  The  sun  pursued  its 
course  through  the  heavens, 
round  and  red  like  a  ball  of  heated 
metal.  Careful  housewives  in  suburban 
cottages  scrupulously  drew  in  the  shut 
ters,  pulled  the  shades,  and  closed  the 
windows  against  the  fierce  heat.  Thus 
they  produced  the  musty  coolness  of  the 
tomb,  in  which  they  existed  languidly 
until  late  afternoon.  Then  easterly^  winz. 
dows  were  opjmed,  admitting  fresh  air. 
On  the  eastern  piazza,  of  the  Simmons" 
house,  as  the  sun  sank,  there  appeared 
two  people.  Mrs.  Simmons  moved  here 
and  there  restlessly,  her  face  pale  with 
the  heat  of  the  day,  dark  circles  beneath 
her  blue  eyes.  She  looped  up  the  wilted 
tendrils  of  the  climbing  vine,  patting  the 
76 


THEIR   CHILD 

belated  blossoms  with  her  soft,  plump 
hands.  Behind  her  in  the  shade  of  the 
long  house  Dr.  Vessinger  lounged  on  a 
chair,  smoking  a  cigarette. 

"  Evelyn ! " 

The  doctor's  low  voice  just  reached 
to  her.  She  started  and  turned  her 
face  to  him.  He  was  a  slight  man, 
with  an  active,  well-proportioned  body. 
How  much  he  had  done  for  himself  since 
those  far-off  days  when  she  had  first 
known  him  !  He  was  Some  One  now  ; 
she  had  a  vague  movement  of  pride  that 
she  had  held  his  fancy  all  these  years. 

"  You  knew  I  should  be  out  to-day  ?  " 
he  questioned,  following  her  with  his 
intelligent  eyes. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  dully.  "  I  sup 
pose  I  did.  It  was  the  proper  thing  to 
do,"  she  added  bitterly.  "No!  I 
don't  mean  that !  I  know  you  are  kind 
—  only  I  suffer  so  !  " 

"  Has  your  husband  turned  up  yet  ?  " 

"  No,  but  he  telephoned  that  he  should 
be  back  for  dinner,  late,  quite  late." 
77 


THEIR    CHILD 

"  Oh  !  Pat  Borden  took  care  of  him. 
He  was  well  looked  after.  You  needn't 
worry." 

"  Why  should  I,  about  him  ? "  she 
asked  inquiringly,  as  if  she  failed  to 
see  any  significance  in  what  he  said. 
"  He  telephoned ;  he  is  well ;  he  will  be 
here  this  evening.  I  do  not  think  about 
him  especially." 

"  I  hope  you  have  thought  about  —  " 

"  No,  no,  please  don't  say  those  foolish 
things.  They  don't  sound  well  the  day 
after." 

He  threw  away  his  cigarette  and 
joined  her. 

"  You  men  are  all  alike ! "  she  con 
tinued  musingly.  "  You  are  all  at  the 
bottom  brutal;  you  don't  care  for  any 
thing  but  —  what  it  means  to  you.  I 
wonder  if  there  was  ever  a  man  born 
who  could  care  for  a  woman  more  than 
for  himself  ? " 

"  If  there  were,  the  woman  would  tire 
of  him  in  a  week." 

"  Mamma !     You  here  ? " 
78 


THEIR    CHILD 

Oscar  came  skipping  out  of  the  house, 
making  one  long  leap  from  the  drawing- 
room  window  to  the  railing  of  the  ve 
randa.  Then  he  ran  toward  his  mother, 
arms  stretched  out  to  hug  her. 

"  Nice  little  fellow,"  Dr.  Vessinger 
remarked  propitiatingly.  "  Won't  you 
come  here,  little  man  ? " 

"  No,  no !  "  the  mother  objected  has 
tily.  "  Run  away,  Oscar.  Ask  Dora 
to  take  you  to  the  Laurels.  It  will  be 
shady  and  cool  there." 

The  child  looked  steadily  and  curi 
ously  at  the  doctor. 

"  Who  is  that  gentleman,  mamma  ? " 
he  demanded. 

"  Ha,  ha,  well  said ! "  the  doctor 
laughed.  "He  wants  to  know  who  your 
friends  are,  madam.  He  will  manage 
you  one  of  these  days.  Come  here,  sir ! " 

Instead  of  running  forward  at  the 
doctor's  invitation,  the  child  backed 
steadily  into  his  mother's  dress,  eying 
the  stranger  with  dislike.  Mrs.  Sim 
mons  glanced  up  at  the  doctor,  sur- 
79 


THEIR   CHILD 

prised  and  annoyed  at  his  conduct.  Did 
he  not  understand  ?  How  could  he 
anger  the  child,  perhaps  provoke  one 
of  his  frightful  paroxysms  ?  It  was 
disagreeable  in  him  to  dwell  thus  on  her 
misery,  to  play  with  the  child. 

"Go  away,  Oscar,"  she  said,  leading 
him  away  from  the  terrace. 

At  the  same  moment  Dr.  Vessinger 
walked  toward  the  mother  and  child. 
Oscar  stood  still,  his  limbs  stiffening,  his 
under  lip  trembling.  Tears  began  to 
gather  in  the  mother's  eyes.  She  was 
frightened,  and  she  hated  the  imperious 
man. 

"  Come,  dear,"  she  urged.  "  Come 
with  mamma.  Be  good  and  do  as  I 
want  you  to." 

She  had  leaned  down  to  him,  and  he 
threw  one  arm  about  her  neck  and  drew 
her  close  to  him,  looking  defiantly  at  the 
doctor. 

"  Is  he  the  man  who  makes  you  cry, 
mamma  ? "  he  asked.     "  Send  him  away. 
I  will  drive  him  away !  " 
80 


THEIR   CHILD 

As  the  mother  watched  him,  standing 
there  with  his  head  thrown  back,  the 
black  curls  falling  on  his  brown  neck, 
he  recalled  to  her  vividly  his  father. 
She  had  seen  the  man  in  something  like 
the  attitude  of  the  child.  Commanding, 
erect,  noble,  defiant,  —  so  she  had  seen 
him  and  worshipped  him  during  the 
months  of  their  ardent  first  love.  The 
little  mite  was  like  her  lover  born 
again. 

"Fiery  little  devil,  isn't  he?"  the 
doctor  remarked,  hesitating  and  discon 
certed.  "  Looks  as  if  he  would  like  to 
smash  me,  stick  a  knife  into  me,  or  some 
thing.  Handsome,  though !  " 

"  I  think  you  had  better  sit  down," 
Mrs.  Simmons  answered  coldly.  As 
the  man  stood  irresolute,  she  added 
vehemently : 

"  Why  do  you  tease  the  child  ?  Go 
back ! " 

The  doctor  turned  back  to  his  chair 
sulkily.  The  mother  kissed  the  boy's 
face,  gently  loosening  the  grasp  of  the 
G  81 


THEIR   CHILD 

strong  little  arm  about  her  neck. 
"  Come,  Oscar,"  she  whispered.  "  We 
will  go  together !  " 

She  led  him  from  the  terrace,  he  look 
ing  backward  constantly  and  scowling 
at  the  unacceptable  guest. 

"  Send  him  away,  mamma,"  he  said. 
"I  don't  like  him." 

"  Ssh,  ssh,"  his  mother  murmured  re 
provingly,  seeking  to  soften  his  barba 
rian  instincts. 

She  was  gone  for  what  seemed  to  the 
doctor  an  interminable  time,  and  when 
she  returned  there  was  something  cold 
and  severe  in  her  pale  face.  Before  she 
seated  herself,  she  began  to  say  what 
she  had  in  mind : 

"  Dr.  Vessinger,  there  is  something  I 
must  say  to  you,  all  at  once,  now,  and  then 
you  must  go.  You  have  made  love  to  me, 
—  yesterday  evening,  —  and  I  listened. 
I  was  in  great  agony  of  mind,  and  so 
foolishly  absorbed  in  my  pain  that  I 
thought  you  —  you  understood  what  my 
trouble  was.  I  wanted  to  escape  from 
82 


THEIR   CHILD 

it  —  at  any  price.  I  was  wild  and  bad. 
Now,  well,  you  don't  understand  ;  and  I 
know,  myself,  I  could  not  get  any  joy  or 
give  any,  without  him,  little  Oscar." 

".I  don't  understand,"  Dr.  Vessinger 
exclaimed,  thoroughly  mystified, 

"  No,  you  don't  -understand,"  she 
admitted  with  cool  irony.  "  Perhaps  it 
is  not  necessary  that  you  should.  You 
doubtless  see  that  I  could  not  give  you 
the  pleasure  you  look  for." 

"  I  do  not  admit  that  for  one  moment," 
he  protested,  rising. 

She  held  out  her  hand. 

"I  was  right  —  eight  years  ago;  that 
is  all,  my  friend." 

He  took  her  hand  and  held  it,  trying 
to  come  nearer,  to  melt  the  icy  mood  of 
the  woman.  She  smiled  pleasantly  at 
him,  unmoved,  confident,  and  in  another 
world  of  feeling  than  his. 

"  You  are  not  well,"  he  stammered, 
"  not  yourself  ! " 

"  Who  can  tell  what  is  yourself  ?  Last 
night  I  wanted  the  freedom  of  my  youth. 
83 


THEIR   CHILD 

Now  I  am  ready  to  take  the  other  thing, 
which  makes  us  old,  —  pain.  Good-by." 

He  still  held  her  hand,  and  she  smiled 
at  him,  aloof.  Just  then  a  man's  voice 
sounded  from  inside  the  house,  and 
Simmons  poked  his  head  out  of  the 
drawing-room  window. 

"  Oh  !    You  here,  Evelyn  ?  " 

Perceiving  Vessinger,  he  added 
gruffly : 

"  Where  is  Jane  or  some  one  ?  I  must 
be  off  to-night,  and  I  want  them  to  pack 
my  bag  and  give  me  some  dinner !  " 

"  How  are  you,  Simmons  ? "  the  doc 
tor  called  out  in  his  cool  manner.  "  Come 
out  here  and  let's  have  a  look  at  you !  " 

"  I'm  all  right,  Vessinger,"  Simmons 
answered  sulkily,  stepping  through  the 
window. 

"  That  was  a  great  performance  you 
gave  us  last  night,  Simmons,  a  triumph  ! 
I  never  heard  anything  better.  Your 
waving  that  glass  over  the  Bellflower's 
crown  of  false  hair  was  magnificent !  " 

Simmons  glowered  at  the  man  and 
84 


THEIR   CHILD 

looked  furtively  at  his  wife.  She  seemed 
to  be  gazing  at  something  at  the  other 
end  of  the  lawn. 

"Oh!"  Simmons  muttered.  "Damn 
nonsense !  " 

His  handsome  face  looked  thin  and 
pale,  as  if  he  had  been  paying  well  for 
his  moments  of  forgetfulness. 

"  Yes,"  continued  the  doctor,  with  an 
insistence  which  seemed  to  Mrs.  Sim 
mons  to  be  petty  malice.  "You  were 
the  success  of  the  evening.  Mrs.  Bell- 
flower  ought  to  thank  you  for  your 
parlor  tricks." 

"  Oh !  damn,"  commented  the  har 
assed  man,  looking  miserably  toward 
his  wife. 

She  turned  suddenly  to  the  two  men. 

"  We  have  had  enough  of  last  night, 
haven't  we  ? " 

"  So  you're  off  again  ?  "  the  doctor 
persisted,  seeking  a  new  topic. 

"Yes,  yes,  long  trip.  God  knows 
when  I  shall  get  back."  This  last  he 
muttered  to  himself.  Vessinger  did  not 
85 


THEIR    CHILD 

hear  it,  but  Mrs.  Simmons  looked  quickly 
at  her  husband.  He  hung  his  head. 

"  You  —  you  are  going  away  ?  "  she 
asked  in  a  low  voice,  forgetting  the 
other  man's  presence.  "  To  leave  me  ? 
Going  to-night  ? " 

"Why,  those  Jews  telegraphed  me  — 
last  night  —  got  it  this  morning  —  must 
be  in  Chicago  to  meet  them." 

He  turned  to  enter  the  house.  Mrs. 
Simmons  followed  him  without  regard 
ing  Vessinger. 

"  I  am  off,"  the  doctor  said  to  her. 
"Good-by." 

But  no  one  heeded  him. 


86 


VII 

ILAF  i " 

There  was  a  note  of  dread 
in  her  voice,  which  arrested 
the  man's  footsteps. 

"  What  ? "  he  asked  curtly. 

"  You  will  not  leave  me,  now  !  You 
are  not  going  away  ?  " 

"You  can't  want  me  around  much, 
after  last  night,"  he  answered  hesitat 
ingly. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  she  asked 
quickly,  a  flush  coming  to  her  face. 

"  There's  no  use  of  going  over  it,  is 
there  ?  I  began  to  drink,  of  course,  be 
cause  I  was  so  damned  blue  about  the 
boy  and  you.  -  It  seerned_as_if  everything 
jvas  -helplessly-mixed  up,  and  there  was 
no  way  of  straightening  it  out.  After 


THEIR    CHILD 

all  the  fight  I  made  to  be  something, 
and  to  win  you,  and  to  give  you  a  good 
place  in  the  world,  —  all  that  was  sud 
denly  smashed.  I  couldn't  stand  sitting 
there  and  thinking  of  nothing  but  that. 
And  when  I  looked  about  at  those  folks, 
and  saw  how  gay  and  lively  and  light- 
hearted  they  were,  I  said  to  myself: 
'  Why  haven't  I  a  right  to  a  good  time, 
too  ?  What's  the  use  of  mulling  over 
this  black  stuff  in  my  mind  ? '  But  I 
couldn't  make  a  big  enough  effort  to 
keep  away  from  it !  I  kept  on  thinking 
of  you  and  little  Oscar,  with  all  those 
gay  people  talking  and  laughing  and 
handsome  women.  '  My  God,'  I  said  to 
myself,  '  if  I  can't  stop  thinking  of  this, 
I  shall  have  to  get  up  and  go  outside.' 
So  I  took  up  my  glass  of  champagne, 
which  I  hadn't  touched,  —  never  drink 
it,  as  you  remember ;  it  was  the  stuff  old 
Oscar  used  to  start  in  with  when  he  was 
on  a  blow-out  —  that  is  why  I  never 
could  bear  it. 

"That  first    glass    made  everything 
88 


THEIR   CHILD 

easier  and  more  natural.  It  untied  the 
knots  in  my  face.  And  another  made 
things  pleasant ;  well,  there's  no  use  in 
going  on  !  I  made  a  beastly  fool  of  my 
self,  sang  that  fool  song,  disgraced  you 
before  all  your  friends.  Showed  them 
how  you  had  married  just  a  hand  out 
of  the  mines !  My  God,  I  should  think 
you'd  want  me  to  go  away  and  never 
come  back ! " 

He  had  dropped  into  a  chair,  and  lay 
there  limp,  his  head  fallen  forward  upon 
his  hands.  She  listened  to  him  with  in 
creasing  wonder,  trying  to  comprehend 
the  significance  of  his  abasement.  What 
was  it  which  he  made  so  much  of? 
Singing  a  silly  song,  drinking  too  much 
wine.  That  was  his  man's  way  of  es 
cape  from  the  pain  of  living,  which  had 
fastened  upon  them  both.  Thus  he  had 
tried  to  live  for  himself  and  defy  God 
to  make  him  wretched! 

And  her  way  ?  She  reddened  with  the 
shame  of  it,  and  was  silent.  Both  of 
them,  so  she  saw,  had  been  trying  to  flee 
89 


THEIR   CHILD 

from  the  grief  that  had  overtaken  them  ; 
to  take  their  lives  out  of  the  place  of  de 
spair,  away  to  some -new  peace  and  joy. 
She  saw  it  now  very  clearly,  and  she 
knew  suddenly  that  through  that  gate 
there  was  no  escape  for  either  of  them. 
The  trap  that  had  caught  them  was  set 
in  the  obscure  past  and  was  made  secure. 

"  But  you  would  not  really  leave  me, 
Olaf  ?  You  could  not.  You  could  not ! 
I  and  our  child  would  follow  you  in  your 
thoughts  everywhere." 

She  knelt  beside  him  and  took  his 
head  in  her  hands. 

"  I  tried  to  run  away,  too.  And  I 
could  not.  Nor  could  you.  Mine  was  so 
much  worse  than  yours  !  I  will  tell  you 
some  day.  Yours  was  nothing  to  me, 
nothing.  Believe  me.  I  think  nothing 
of  it,  nothing  more  than  if  you  spilled  a 
glass  of  wine  on  my  dress,  or  went  out 
in  the  rain  without  your  coat,  or  did 
something  else  foolish.  Don't  think  of 
that,  Olaf !  We  have  so  much  else  to 
feel,  you  and  I." 

90 


:  SHE   KNELT   BESIDE  HIM   AND   TOOK   HIS   HEAD 
IN    HER    HANDS." 


THEIR   CHILD 

She  drew  his  head  to  her.  She  was 
his  mother  and  yearned,  and  yet  was 
afraid,  also.  The  man's  tired  eyes 
looked  into  her  eyes.  He,  too,  had 
suffered  in  his  male  way  as  she  had 
suffered.  About  his  face  there  was  a 
look,  wistful  and  young  and  tender,  such 
as  it  had  been  in  the  past  when  she  had 
loved  him  passionately.  She  kissed 
his  lips,  thus  wiping  away  his  self- 
contempt. 

"  Do  you  remember,  Olaf  ? "  she 
whispered.  "  Do  you  remember  the 
night  you  carried  me  down  the  moun 
tain,  when  the  horse  stumbled  on  the 
trail  and  you  were  afraid  to  trust  him 
again  ?  Your  arms  were  a  shield  about 
my  body.  I  want  them  now,  my 
husband ! " 

He  saw  that  black  night,  the  slipping 
sand  and  rocks  beneath  his  feet,  the  pre 
cious  body  in  his  arms,  the  white  face 
upturned  to  his.  When  he  could  go  no 
farther  safely,  they  had  camped  among 
the  rocks  under  a  scrawny  fir.  He  had 
91 


THEIR    CHILD 

built  a  wind  screen  of  brush  against  a 
boulder,  and  they  had  crawled  within. 
There  he  had  held  her  locked  in  his 
arms  the  whole  night  that  she  might 
rest  while  he  watched  and  loved.  .  .  . 

Other  memories  of  their  ardent  years 
crowded  this  one.  First  she  had  taken 
the  journeys  with  him,  going  to  the 
mines,  living  in  the  camps.  Then  she 
had  waited  for  him  here  at  home,  where 
he  had  placed  her  among  her  old  friends, 
in  this  pleasant  country  house.  He  was 
often  away,  but  he  worked  the  more 
fiercely  to  get  back  to  her.  Once 
he  had  come  wilfully,  without  warning, 
from  British  Columbia,  three  thousand 
six  hundred  miles,  without  a  pause, 
hurled  on  his  course  by  an  irresistible 
desire  to  know  that  his  joy  was  real,  to 
see  that  she  lived  on  the  earth  still  and 
was  his.  He  had  arrived  after  dinner, 
and  found  her  dressed  to  go  out,  —  tall, 
white,  beautiful,  —  more  wonderful  than 
in  the  camp  he  had  dreamed  she  was. 
When  she  looked  up  and  saw  him, — 
92 


THEIR    CHILD 

the  unexpected,  welcome  one,  —  she  had 
given  a  glad  cry,  and  lifted  her  arms 
and  face  to  his,  careless  of  the  maid,  her 
gown,  his  travel-stained  self.  .  .  . 

"  I  had  two  or  three  days,  and  I 
thought  I  would  come  on,"  he  had  said, 
repaid  already  in  good  fact.  .  .  . 

She  had  her  memories,  too.  Her 
woman's  life  was  woven  with  the  little 
intimacies  of  the  seven  married  years. 
Their  life  together,  their  passion  and 
joy, — it  blazed  before  her  in  the  stillness. 
She  had  thought  it  was  to  go  on  like 
that  always,  for  many  years,  fading  per 
chance  when  they  were  old  into  some 
thing  gentler,  less  abundant.  Now, 
suddenly,  in  the  space  of  a  few  days,  she 
was  brought  to  see  that  such  joy  had 
a  term  set  within  her  own  experience. 
It  was  past! 

"  We  have  loved  so  much,"  she  mur 
mured.  "We  have  been  so  happy. 
That  is  over  now." 

He  nodded,  bringing  her  hands  to  his 
lips.  He  knew  what  she  meant.  The  old 
93 


THEIR   CHILD 

joy,  the  careless  pleasure  of  their  early 
selves,  had  gone  under  the  shadow. 
Something  out  of  them  had  been  created 
in  those  hours  of  freedom,  which  was 
now  asserting  its  control  over  them,  — 
something  from  the  past,  unknown  to 
them,  gathered  up  and  expressed  through 
them.  They  were  now  to  be  less,  and 
this  which  had  come  out  of  them  was  to 
be  more.  Sorrow  or  satisfaction,  it  was 
all  one,  —  it  was  to  be  met  and  borne 
with.  Youth  had  passed  ;  selfish  joy  had 
been  blown  away — there  remained  their 
child. 

"  Little  Oscar,"  the  mother  murmured. 
"  We  must  do  what  we  can  for  him, 
mustn't  we  ? " 

"  All  that  can  be  done  !  "  he  exclaimed. 

"  Live  with  him,  take  him  away  from 
here,  fight  for  him,"  she  whispered. 
"As  long  as  he  lives.  As  long  as  we 
live !  "  Her  tears  fell  upon  his  hands. 

"  Yes !  that  is  it.  We  must  fight  to 
gether  for  the  child  as  long  as  we  live !  " 

And  they  both  divined  something  of 
94 


THEIR    CHILD 

how  the  years  must  be,  living  not  for 
themselves  but  largely  for  their  child, 
changing  their  life  as  his  needs  changed, 
preparing  to  struggle  with  him  against 
the  odds  of  his  fate. 

"  Where  is  he  ? "  he  asked. 

They  found  him  playing  by  himself 
under  a  great  tree.  When  he  saw  them 
coming  across  the  lawn,  he  stood  very 
still  and  watched  their  faces,  looking  at 
them  keenly.  His  mother  took  his  hand 
and  leaned  over  to  kiss  him.  He  put 
his  other  hand  up  to  his  father.  Thus 
they  walked  slowly  back  toward  the 
house,  the  child  gravely  marching  be 
tween  his  parents,  holding  them  to  him, 
one  on  either  hand. 


95 


The    Macmillan    Little    Novels 

BY   FAVOURITE   AUTHORS 

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'Philosophy  Four 

A  STORY  OF  HARVARD   UNIVERSITY.    By 
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Man  Overboard 

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"  Marietta,"  etc. 

Mr.  Keegan's  Elopement 

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Mrs.  Pendleton's  Four-in-Hand 

By  GERTRUDE  ATHERTON,  author  of  "  The  Con 
queror,"  "  The  Splendid  Idle  Forties,"  etc. 

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of  Caesar,"  "God  Wills  It,"  etc. 

The  Golden  Chain 

By  GWENDOLEN  OVERTON,  author  of  "  The  Heri 
tage  of  Unrest,"  "  Anne  Carmel,"  etc. 

Their  Child 

By  ROBERT  HERRICK,  author  of  "  The  Web  of 
Life,"  "  The  Real  World,"  etc. 


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